


Beneath a Dragon Moon

by The Librarina (tears_of_nienna)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - A Song of Ice and Fire Fusion, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Arranged Marriage, Dragons, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-02-10 16:53:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 45,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18664477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tears_of_nienna/pseuds/The%20Librarina
Summary: Enjolras Targaryen is sold to a Dothraki khal by his brother. But what he finds among the khalasar is more than he expected. Game of Thrones/Song of Ice and Fire fusion.





	1. Chapter 1

His brother is smiling.

Enjolras has come to dread that look. The cool curve of his brother's lips has always been an ill omen.

He has dreamt of running away a thousand times in his eighteen years. Yet every time he considers it, he remembers a little brick house, a red door, and a woman’s voice, soft and sad.

 _You must look after each other_.

When he was a child, he believed that the voice was his mother’s. Now he knows that she died in her bed the night he was born, and the words cannot be hers. But he holds to them anyway.

Looking after Montparnasse means pulling him out of taverns before he gets knifed for any number of reasons. It means following him from city to city in search of an army they cannot afford to raise. It means enduring the frequent storms of his rages, setting himself in his brother’s path so that his ire does not fall upon servants or strangers.

It is true that Montparnasse is the elder, with the rightful claim to the throne. But he has less the look of a Targaryen—his hair is too dark, a bronze that fades to brown in the sunless rainy season, though his eyes are violet like the portraits of their father. Rather, it is Enjolras whose pale blond hair favors their bloodline. Montparnasse has always resented him, for his looks and for killing their mother at his birth.

When Enjolras was seven years old, a man suggested that Montparnasse was a bastard, and Enjolras the true heir. Enjolras had watched his brother carve out the man's tongue for the insult.

It was foolish and hot-headed, and only lent more credence to the rumors. He would have done better to ignore it, or to make light of the insult, but Montparnasse is not wise. It pains Enjolras to admit it, even to himself, but it is the truth.

And now Montparnasse is smiling, and Enjolras is afraid. The dinner laid out on the table before them had been enough to whet his appetite only a moment ago, but now it is all he can do to reach for a stuffed fig. Montparnasse will notice if he does not eat.

So he sits, and sips his wine, and waits for his brother to tell him his news. He will not have to wait long—Montparnasse is as patient as he is wise.

Montparnasse raises his glass as though he means to give a toast, but he only turns the goblet in the light, admiring the ruby color of the wine. "I have made you a suitable match," he says. He might have been commenting on the vintage, for all the emotion he shows.

Enjolras stills. "Have you indeed?" He had expected something worse— _still_ expects worse. He has never had an interest in marriage, as his tastes do not run towards women, but a spark of hope lights in his chest. If the match is _suitable_ , then she must have land somewhere, an inheritance of her own. Enjolras does not care if she lives in a palace or a hovel, so long as it means he will be far from here.

Montparnasse gives him a scolding look. "I have done so much for you, to arrange this match. Do you not care to know to whom you are promised?"

Enjolras controls his temper, knowing now that he will not have to play his brother's games for much longer. "To whom am I promised, brother?" he asks, skirting the edge of mockery.

His smile broadens, turns feral. "You are to marry a Dothraki khal."

"I see," Enjolras says evenly.

"Are you not pleased?" Montparnasse continues, gesturing with the wine-glass. A few drops splash over the rim onto the white linen of the tablecloth—this is not his first cup of wine tonight. "You see how well your brother cares for you. Knowing that you do not favor women, I have made a more fitting arrangement.”

“You are very kind.”

He acknowledges the praise with a careless wave of his hand. “It is all for the better. After all, I cannot have you fathering a Targaryen line of your own, to muddle the succession. Not that it would have been likely, given your preferences, but it is better knowing that any child you father would be a bastard.”

It is shrewd thinking, and Enjolras wonders uncharitably who had put the idea in his head. But he says nothing.

“He is eager, this khal,” Montparnasse continues. “He says he has never fucked a prince before."

Enjolras keeps his face carefully blank; he will pay if he flinches.

"And he doubled his price when I said you were a virgin."

That only means that the khal offered him a price, and Montparnasse simply demanded twice the sum. Yet the khal's acceptance of the terms does not mean anything good for Enjolras. He cannot help but wonder what price he has commanded. Perhaps it is enough to buy Montparnasse the army he has sought for so long. Perhaps, at long last, he will be satisfied.

He would like to be gone from here, to be far away from his brother. But what sort of a man is this khal? Who would pay such a monstrous sum for the privilege of being the first to lie with him?

"What does he look like?" Enjolras asks, as though it is an idle curiosity.

"It does not matter what he looks like," Montparnasse hisses, and Enjolras knows that his brother has never met the man who bought him, only his servants and interpreters. "You will please him all the same."

"As you say."

He must have made some mistake. Perhaps, in struggling to keep his voice light, he has not sounded fearful _enough_ , and Montparnasse senses the lie. He surges up out of his seat, sending dishes clattering to the floor as he reaches out to seize Enjolras' arm.

"You _will_ please him," he repeats, and his fingertips dig painfully into the hollow of Enjolras’ wrist. "If he returns you to me, he will expect his gifts returned as well, and I mean to buy an army with his gold. I will be _displeased_ if he returns you, do you understand?"

Enjolras is more than familiar with the consequences of his brother’s displeasure. He nods, his jaw clenched tight against the urge to pull away. Resistance only makes matters worse; he knows this.

Montparnasse releases him. He sits back down, ignoring the figs now scattered across the table, and flicks a hand in the direction of a servant, who steps forward to pour him a new glass of wine.

Enjolras lowers his hands to his lap, where he can rub the ache out of his wrist unnoticed. "When will he send for me?" he asks.

"In the morning."

“ _Tomorrow_?” He cannot quite keep the shock from his voice. Montparnasse must have been hiding this arrangement for a long time. Even if Enjolras had hoped to escape, he could not manage it in the few hours that remain. He casts about for an excuse. "Am I to leave without making my farewells to Magister LaMarque? Without thanking him for the hospitality he has shown us these last six years? He will be back in a week. Surely the khal could wait that long."

"A khal does not wait for anyone, or anything. I will convey your sentiments to the magister. By the time he returns from the city, you will be leagues away, already across the Rhoyne."

The thought does not comfort Enjolras, but it was not intended to. "Tell me more about the khal," he says instead. "Does he speak the Common Tongue?"

Montparnasse lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug. "I doubt it. The horselords prefer their own barbaric tongue to anything civilized. Even the old man he sent to speak for him had a dreadful accent. I could barely understand a word he said."

The first real fear seizes Enjolras as he realizes there may be no one in the whole khalasar who can understand him. "At least send a servant with me, one who speaks Dothraki. As a gift," he pleads.

"The servants are not mine to send. Only you."

Magister LaMarque would not begrudge him a servant. He would send an interpreter with Enjolras, to ease his first days in the khalasar, and probably a small retinue of other servants as well. Out of pride, at least, if not affection. It would not do to send his ward away with nothing.

But then, the magister has always favored him, and Montparnasse knows it. He must have arranged all of this to take place while LaMarque was away from the city, knowing that he would make objections if he were here.

Enjolras sees now that it was unwise to plead with Montparnasse for his own sake. He cares nothing for Enjolras’ comfort, only for what he can gain from this match. With such matters in mind, Enjolras tries once more. "How am I meant to please him if I cannot understand what he wants of me?"

Montparnasse gives him a look of fond contempt. "These savages are simple in their desires. I should not have to explain _that_ to you. You are untried, but I know you are not ignorant. In any case, I imagine the khal has better uses for your mouth than speech." He rises from the table, carrying his cup of wine with him. "Sleep well, little brother. You have an important day ahead of you."

 

Enjolras lies awake in the darkness of his room for what feels like hours. The warm salt breeze from the Narrow Sea billows the gauzy curtains, and he wonders idly what it will be like, to feel a breeze off the grasslands instead. Tomorrow night, he will sleep in a khal’s tent, in a khal’s bed...

His stomach twists with nerves, his curiosity at war with his fear and shame. He knows that his desires are wrong, that the Seven will not look kindly upon him. Perhaps the Dothraki gods are more forgiving.

Though it does not seem likely. He knows little enough of the Dothraki, but none of his knowledge suggests gentleness. Everyone in Pentos knows _something_ of the Dothraki—they ride horses, they live in tents, they are marauders and thieves. Magister LaMarque has lost more than one trading caravan to a Dothraki raiding party, and the survivors of these attacks tell chilling tales of their savagery.

Yet he wonders...is it better or worse, to be bound to a man who wears his savagery plain, instead of hiding it behind silks and smiles?

Somewhere in the magister’s household, there must be a servant who can aid him. He waits until he is certain his brother has gone to bed, and then he lights a candle and slips out of his room. He pads barefoot through the corridor and down two flights of stairs to the servants' quarters. He knocks gently on the fourth door.

At first, there is no response, and Enjolras wonders if he has miscounted. Then the door opens a sliver, suspiciously, and Miriya peers out at him. She is years younger than Enjolras, perhaps eleven or twelve, indentured to the magister to pay off her father’s debts. Her parents are learned people, though poor gamblers, and Miriya speaks four languages with ease.

The open door widens somewhat when she sees that it is Enjolras. "Yes, my lord?"

"I am sorry to wake you, but—do you speak Dothraki?"

"A little," she says.

Enjolras holds out a sheaf of paper and a bottle of ink. "Can you teach me?"

 

* * *

 

He creeps back into his room just before dawn, and he barely closes his eyes before a servant knocks on the door to rouse him and bring him down to breakfast. He manages only a few bites under his brother's watchful eye before excusing himself.

"I have a gift for you," Montparnasse says, before Enjolras can gain the stairs.

"Is it an interpreter?" He would not dare try his brother so openly if he did not know that he would be free of him before nightfall.

Montparnasse does not reply. Instead, he casts a folded bundle down at Enjolras' feet. Enjolras picks it up, and the bundle reveals itself to be clothing—doe-skin leggings, tall black riding boots, and a finely made black tunic with the three-headed dragon of the Targaryens embroidered in crimson silk thread.

"I thank you," he ventures uncertainly.

"You should. Everything in this house that does not belong to Magister LaMarque belongs to me. These clothes are a gift to you, so that you need not approach the khal naked."

Enjolras swallows back his anger, and with it the urge to throw the ‘gift’ back in his brother’s face. Montparnasse may excuse rudeness, but defiance will see him punished, khal or no. "You are generous indeed," he says, forcing the words through a tight throat.

Montparnasse preens, the bitterness slipping past him undetected. "I am. Now go and dress. Your intended will be here soon."

Enjolras returns to his quarters, where he is scrubbed and dressed and fussed over by a dozen servants. The clothing that Montparnasse has given him is fine indeed, suitable for a prince in exile. Enjolras dons a belt as well, though he has not been given permission to take it. It is simple, a band of unadorned dark leather with a silver buckle. It will not be missed.

More importantly, there are a dozen gold dragons sewn into the belt's lining. He has been squirreling the coin away for three years now, in copper stars and silver stags that his brother is too careless to count at the end of a night of drinking or gambling. Once he had hoped to use the sum to buy passage on a ship, and escape his brother that way, but he had always quailed in the face of such an irrevocable choice. He does not know what use the gold will be among the Dothraki, but if the khal casts him out before they cross the Rhoyne, he will have enough coin to survive.

He takes the ink-scribbled pages from the night before, covered in what little Dothraki he gleaned from Miriya overnight, and tucks them close to his skin. He has only a precious few words, but Enjolras hopes that they will serve until he can find someone willing to teach him more. The grammar is difficult, which might have pleased him if he were studying the language for leisure. In his current state, it only frustrates him. He is ashamed at himself for expecting the language to be simple. Perhaps his brother's talk of 'savages' had begun to root itself in Enjolras’ mind, as well.

His room looks out over the sea, not the road, but Enjolras can hear the khal’s arrival even over the sound of the waves. The horses' hooves rumble over the lane in front of the house like a distant summer storm.

The door is flung open without warning; Montparnasse does not bother with such courtesies as knocking. "I hope you are ready," he says, a threat lurking at the edge of the words.

Enjolras stands up straight, knowing that it makes him half an inch taller than his brother. "I am."

"Then come with me."

They descend the broad staircase to the front door, and a servant draws it open for them. Miriya is already waiting on the terrace to serve as an interpreter. As Enjolras passes her, he slips a silver stag into her hand without breaking stride.

Beyond the terrace is a sea of men and women and horses. The dust raised by their mounts clouds the sunrise, and Enjolras' impression is only of the herd, horses steaming and whickering in the cool morning. Dozens, perhaps as many as fifty—an honor guard for the khal.

Enjolras stands beside his brother and waits for the khal to approach. At first it seems as though no one will come, and then two men dismount to climb the broad, shallow steps to the terrace.

The first is easily six and a half feet tall and thickly muscled. The parts of his bare chest that are not covered in scars are traced in blue swaths of ink or paint. His companion is powerfully built, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, but somewhat younger than the first and a great deal shorter—Enjolras thinks he himself might overtop the man by an inch or two. Both men wear their hair braided, with bells woven in among the strands.

The khal, then, and a bodyguard.

Montparnasse steps forward eagerly, beckoning to Miriya. He nods his greeting to the taller of the two men, careful not to offer any suggestion of a bow. "Khal Grantaire," he says. "I present to you Enjolras Targaryen, rightful prince of the Seven Kingdoms."

 _Grantaire_. At least now he has a name.

Miriya echoes him in Dothraki. The khal nods and replies. His words sound thick and sharp and entirely alien, and Enjolras despairs of ever understanding. It sounds very little like the words he had practiced last night.

But it seems that she understands, because she turns to Montparnasse. "He says that they have ridden far, all through the night, and would be pleased for a cup of wine."

Montparnasse waves a hand to another servant, lurking near the door. "Yes, very well. Bring wine, but one of the _lesser_ vintages. There is no point in wasting good wine on these barbarians."

"And bread," Enjolras adds swiftly. Bread and salt to seal the guest right. It may be that the Dothraki do not understand the import of the gesture, but Montparnasse _does_ , and he would not dare to try any mischief against these Dothraki if it meant breaking guest right.

Montparnasse gives him a furious look, but he cannot raise a hand to Enjolras in front of the man who has bought him. The thought sends a secret thrill through Enjolras—he is no longer his brother's thing to torment.

Montparnasse smiles instead, a false and simpering expression. "Indeed, bring us bread—and _salt_ , to ease my dear brother's mind."

The servant hurries inside, and Montparnasse gestures to the chairs that stand on the terrace. “Please sit,” he says.

Although Miriya translates the offer, the Dothraki make no move to sit, forcing Enjolras and his brother to remain standing as well. Of course, if they had ridden through the night as the khal said, they would be glad of a chance to stretch their legs.

Enjolras rather likes seeing his brother's plans so innocently thwarted, but he has learned better than to show his amusement.

The servants bring a flagon of wine and a platter of bread and meat and cheese. Montparnasse is plainly disappointed when the Dothraki sip their wine and take only a few small morsels of bread. Clearly he had been hoping to see some fit of savagery, the better to frighten Enjolras.

But he needn’t be disappointed. Enjolras has long known that fine manners may hide all sorts of terrible things.

When the wine is finished and the servants take away the cups, Montparnasse cuts to the heart of the matter. "Now I will have the gold that was promised to me, if you please."

Miriya translates, and the khal nods, gesturing to the riders behind him. Ten of them dismount to bring forward small wooden chests, and when the lids are lifted there is a gleam of gold within.

"He says that this is the price you asked," Miriya tells them.

Montparnasse stares greedily at the gold, and the khal looks everywhere, but his bodyguard has eyes only for Enjolras. He finds himself standing taller beneath the dark, steady gaze, determined not to show fear. Enjolras' eyes stray briefly from the other man's face, drawn despite himself to the muscles and scars of his bare chest. He has tattoos as well, though these are more delicate than his companion’s. His shoulders are set easily, his body relaxed and confident. A bodyguard should be more alert, more _tense_ , even if there is no visible threat to his khal...

And then Enjolras understands. He takes a deep breath and prays to all the Seven as he steps forward. "Khal Grantaire," he says, without taking his eyes from the shorter man. "I am most honored to make your acquaintance."

It is the only sentence he has learned in Dothraki. The true khal smiles, a bright and pleased grin, and Enjolras nearly laughs aloud at the irony. Given time and choice, he might have gone to such a man willingly.

Montparnasse stammers out an apology, immediately dismissing the presence of the tall bodyguard. He is ashamed of his error, and furious with it; Enjolras can see the rage in the flush of his cheeks. Enjolras wonders uneasily who will suffer for it, now that he will not be there.

Khal Grantaire speaks at last, his eyes never leaving Enjolras. Enjolras can only smile and shrug, looking to Miriya for the words.

She clears her throat. "He says that he is pleased to meet the prince of the Targaryens, and that he finds the rumors of his beauty to have been entirely inadequate."

Enjolras blinks, and he feels his face grow hot under the praise. He nods his head to the khal. "Miriya, please give the khal my thanks."

She hesitates for the first time, enough to make Enjolras wonder if he has committed some sort of Dothraki indiscretion, but then she smiles and speaks to the khal.

The khal replies to her.

"He has a gift for you, he says," Miriya tells him. It is already as though Montparnasse no longer exists.

"A gift?" What sort of man buys a gift for someone who is little better than a bed-slave?

Khal Grantaire turns and beckons to one of his riders, who swings down off her horse and leads a riderless, saddled mare to the foot of the terrace. The horse is pale gold, with a silver-white mane to match Enjolras’ hair. She is light and lean, not at all like a destrier, and she seems a strange mount to be found in a Dothraki khalasar.

Khal Grantaire catches the horse's bridle in one hand and stretches the other hand out to Enjolras. " _Yer adothrae mae_ ," he says. Enjolras thinks he recognizes the word for _ride_ , but beyond that he is lost once more. He looks back at Miriya for one last explanation.

"He says that she is for you to ride."

Enjolras nods and descends the broad stairs to where Grantaire stands, ready to help him mount. The golden mare's saddle is different from a Westerosi one, but there are recognizable stirrups and Enjolras is a capable rider. He vaults into the saddle unaided, and Grantaire nods in approval before mounting his own horse.

They ride towards the rising sun, with Enjolras beside Grantaire at the head of a long column of riders.

He does not look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been a long time coming--it was one of the first AU ideas I ever considered for the Les Mis fandom, and it's been kind of my "baby" ever since. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it.
> 
> As always, please feel free to come and say hello at my [tumblr](http://thelibrarina.tumblr.com).


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see end notes for content warnings.

The khal does not speak to him at all as they ride out of the city, nor do any of the others. Of course, Enjolras would not understand more than one word in a hundred if they _did_ speak, so he hardly minds the quiet. Just after noon, they pass through the city gates, and out into the farms and fields beyond Pentos. It is a fine, clear day for riding, and Enjolras feels his heart lighten with each mile that grows between himself and his brother.

The sun crosses the cloudless sky and throws long shadows out in front of them before they reach the khalasar. The vast camp of tents and cookfires spreads out before them, rich with the smell of horses and roasting meat.

Grantaire rides into the middle of this camp, and a thousand Dothraki voices murmur greetings and honors. He swings himself down from his horse and disappears among the others, calling out orders. Enjolras may not understand the words, but the tone is clear enough.

He tries to dismount, but they have ridden so far and so long that his legs have grown stiff. When he tries to climb down from the saddle, he has to close his eyes and bite his lip against the cry that threatens to tear itself from him. He did not know that riding could _hurt_ so much.

Grantaire is returning, having left his horse in the care of one of his men, and Enjolras tries again, desperate not to show weakness. This time, the muscles of one thigh seize in an agonizing cramp.

Pain begins to give way to panic. If Grantaire sees that he cannot dismount, he will be disgusted. He will send Enjolras back to Montparnasse, and no matter what awaits him here, he would rather die than return. He rubs at the cramped muscle, which only makes it hurt more, and tries one last time.

He overbalances, his upper body tilting to one side with his foot still caught in the stirrup. He is going to fall, and the horse will startle, and it will trample him. He can see it in his mind as though it has already happened.

Before he can fall, Grantaire is beside him, pushing him back up into the saddle. He frowns and says something. Enjolras thinks _horse_ was part of it, or perhaps _ride_. His knowledge is as woefully lacking as he had feared. He cannot hope to understand this man, let alone hope to please him. He cannot even make it understood that he will be forced to sit atop this horse forever unless someone should help him down.

"I can't," Enjolras says in the Common Tongue, knowing that Grantaire will not understand. He clenches his jaw against the pain and humiliation. "I _can't_."

He braces for Grantaire's reaction, wondering if it will be physical or only verbal. Perhaps cruel words will hurt less if he cannot understand them.

Instead, Grantaire lifts him from the saddle, his hands tight and careful around Enjolras' hips. He sets Enjolras on his feet and does not let go, waiting to see if Enjolras' legs will support him.

They don't. Enjolras stumbles, burning with shame, but Grantaire simply picks him up and carries him like a child or a bride into a vast hide tent in the center of the camp.

It is dim and warm inside, and covering the floor is a thick layer of rugs. A bed stands against one wall, heaped high with blankets and furs, but Grantaire sets him down instead on a wooden bench with a thick silk cushion on top. He is gentle, shockingly so, but Enjolras cannot hide a wince of pain. Grantaire turns away and strides out of the tent, shouting something in Dothraki. Perhaps he is telling the others to tear down their camp, that they will ride through the night once more and return Enjolras to his brother with the dawn.

But Grantaire does not return, and the sounds beyond the tent remain calm and unhurried. After a while, a young woman steps inside. She holds a little earthen jar in her hands, glazed a pale green that Enjolras has only seen in porcelain from Yi Ti. Surely the khalasar has not raided so far as _that_?

She presses the jar into his hands, and Enjolras lifts the lid. He is immediately surrounded by the clean scent of herbs and peppermint, and he realizes that it is a salve for his tormented muscles.

She reaches for his belt, but Enjolras jolts back in surprise. "No, I can—thank you," he stammers. "But I do not understand." Why should the khal be kind to him? Why should he care if Enjolras is in pain?

The woman smiles at him, nods, and leaves the tent. It takes Enjolras a long time to remove his leggings, and then he begins the painful process of rubbing the salve into his skin.

He is startled when the salve begins to tingle against his skin, turning into a needling chill that numbs his aching muscles. It stings, and it leaves his hands half-numb as well, but even that is an improvement. When he is finished, he struggles back into his leggings, for reasons of dignity rather than sense. After all, the khal will soon see him in his smallclothes—and less. The thought makes his heart pound, and he curls his hands into fists to keep them from shaking.

But when Grantaire pushes past the tent flap and steps inside, he makes no move for Enjolras. He looks at him and says something in a vaguely questioning tone, but Enjolras can only shrug in response, rising clumsily to his feet.

A servant follows Grantaire with a tray in his hands, laden with food and a flagon of wine or mead, and he sets it down on a low table, surrounded with cushions. Grantaire sits down, and gestures for Enjolras to sit with him.

Enjolras lowers himself onto a cushion, a process that takes an embarrassing length of time, but Grantaire waits for him to sit. Abruptly Enjolras remembers that he has not eaten since his few bites of breakfast at dawn. He reaches for a loaf of bread and then pulls back, realizing that he has not been given permission to eat.

Grantaire picks up the bread himself, tears it in half, and hands one piece to Enjolras. Enjolras decides that the gesture means that permission has been granted, and he loses some of his hesitation. When he bites into a sweet, ripe date, he smiles for the first time in days. They had always been his favorite, since he was a child and Magister LaMarque used to keep them in a dish on his desk. Enjolras remembers being smaller than that desk, reaching up to sneak one after another from the dish, until it was empty and the magister pretended not to know where the dates had gone.

It seems impossible that he will never see the magister's library again. He had not even had a chance to bid LaMarque farewell. Perhaps, if the khalasar should pass a trader's caravan, he could send a message...

Grantaire picks up the flagon and fills two cups. He hands one to Enjolras, who eyes the contents suspiciously. It is neither wine nor ale, but a cloudy pale liquor unfamiliar to him. He takes a swallow and nearly chokes at the sour taste and the sharp burn of alcohol.

Grantaire laughs and throws back his own drink without hesitation. Enjolras puts his cup down, and gratefully drinks the water that a servant brings instead.

When they have eaten their fill, the servant carries away the tray, and then they are alone. Grantaire rises from his cushion and unknots the leather band that ties off his braid. Enjolras watches him unbraid his hair, taking each little bell from its place to lay it in a silver bowl on a table beside the bed.

It is said that the Dothraki do not cut their hair save in defeat, and unbraided, Grantaire's hair falls in thick black waves that reach nearly to his waist. Enjolras feels an unwonted urge to reach out and comb his fingers through its length.

Then Grantaire turns to look at Enjolras. He scrambles to his feet, nearly managing to hide a wince as he rises. He does not go to Grantaire, but stands waiting in the center of the tent, out of arm's reach.

Grantaire studies him seriously in the lamp-light. Enjolras takes a deep breath and tries to slow the panicked beating of his heart. All through the long ride, he had thought only of his relief at being free from his brother, and now he must pay the price for that freedom. He stands very still and hopes that it will not hurt.

Grantaire reaches out, and Enjolras flinches, closing his eyes. But Grantaire only tucks a lock of hair behind Enjolras' ear. The backs of his fingers brush gently over Enjolras' cheek.

When he opens his eyes again, Grantaire is standing close to him. "Want," he says, in heavily accented Common. That _would_ be one of the only words he knows, Enjolras supposes. Want, take, have—those would be the most useful words for a khal.

Grantaire holds out a hand to him. "Yes?"

He should reach out, he should take the khal's hand—anything to keep from angering him. His brother's rage was terrible, yes, but it was a rage that he knew. He knows almost nothing about Grantaire.

But the word falls from his lips without thought, an instinctive denial. "No."

"No," Grantaire echoes, his tone a question.

Enjolras repeats it, in Dothraki this time, and his voice trembles, betraying him. What does his denial matter? Grantaire had paid a vast sum of gold for the purpose of bedding him. He will take what he wants, and Enjolras will not be able to stop him. Even if he fights, he will not win, and it will go worse for him.

Grantaire only nods. "No," he says a final time, and then he turns away from Enjolras. He strips out of his horsehair leggings and slides beneath the furs that cover the bed, leaving Enjolras standing agape in the center of the tent.

What is it that Grantaire wants of him now? Is he meant to join him in bed—only to sleep? He cannot imagine that he would be accorded that honor without earning it. But there is nowhere else in the tent to sleep, unless Grantaire means for him to wrap himself in the rugs that cover the floor...

A mad courage takes hold of him, and he crosses the tent to climb beneath the furs on the bed's far side. He turns his back to Grantaire and waits, his hands curled into fists in the bedclothes. Now, surely, Grantaire will turn over and use him for the purpose for which he was bought...

Enjolras waits, his body held tense despite the depths of his exhaustion. One minute passes, and then another, and finally he understands.

Grantaire is _asleep_.

He cherishes his good fortune all the more, knowing that it is not likely to hold. Perhaps the khal has only taken pity on him because of his pain after riding all day—or perhaps he did not like the thought of wasting Enjolras' virginity on a night when he could make little accounting of himself.

He will revel in his reprieve no matter what its cause. Enjolras closes his eyes and sleeps.

 

He wakes before dawn to find that they have shifted in their sleep. Grantaire's hand is warm and heavy on his hip, and Enjolras can feel the rigid length of Grantaire's cock pressed against his back.

He has lain still for an hour, fearing to wake him.

Finally, the sounds of the stirring camp are enough to rouse Grantaire. He draws his hand away and sits up. Enjolras keeps his eyes closed and his breathing shallow, knowing that Grantaire is watching him.

_Now_ , he thinks. _Now he will do what he likes with me_. He closes his eyes tighter, waiting...

He hears a sigh and a muttered Dothraki word, and the bed shifts as Grantaire turns away from him. Enjolras keeps still, but the quickening of Grantaire's breath is enough to tell what he is doing. Enjolras fights against the urge to scramble out of bed, out of the tent, and give the khal his privacy.

Grantaire gives a long, shuddering sigh and drops back onto the bed. Enjolras curls in on himself, his mind whirling. What sort of man is Grantaire, that he would take himself in hand rather than taking the person he had bought for that purpose?

Perhaps he falls asleep again, because it seems only a moment later that he hears Grantaire speak. "Enjolras."

The word feels like a lightning-strike. He has never heard Grantaire say his name, not when they had met on the terrace, nor through the long day of riding, nor even when they were alone in the tent. There is something in his voice, his accent, the way the syllables seem to melt into the air, that makes Enjolras' name feel entirely new.

He lies still, in the hope that Grantaire will say it again.

" _Enjolras_." This time his hand falls to Enjolras' shoulder, gently. He opens his eyes and looks up at Grantaire. And Grantaire _smiles_ , as though simply waking up beside Enjolras is a pleasure. He says something else, something in Dothraki, and Enjolras can only shake his head in confusion.

Grantaire repeats it, and then tugs on the silk sleeve of Enjolras' tunic. He points at a chest tucked away in a corner. Enjolras staggers out of bed, his body still aching from the last day's riding, and crosses the tent to open the chest. Within it are stacks of folded clothing in the Dothraki style, of a size to suit him.

He looks over at Grantaire, frowning, and Grantaire laughs before turning his back. Enjolras dresses quickly, surprised to find that the clothes are not uncomfortable, and when he is finished he turns around to find Grantaire studying the rugs on the floor, his back still turned to Enjolras.

"You can turn now," Enjolras says, and Grantaire looks up at the sound of his voice. He says something, of which Enjolras recognizes half a word— _dothra_ , to ride. He tries to hide his dismay, but Grantaire only laughs and says something else as he lifts the tent flap. It sounds like a curse to Enjolras' ears, but it could as easily be a blessing.

Perhaps it is both.

 

* * *

 

The second night is nearly the same as the first. He still has to be helped down from his mount, but at least he does not need to be carried into the tent this time.

When they have eaten, and they are alone, Grantaire asks him again. "Want?"

He still does not understand why Grantaire is _asking_ , when Enjolras knows that this is why Grantaire bought him. Surely his patience is finite, but Enjolras presses his luck and shakes his head. "No," he says.

Grantaire nods, and he goes to bed.

Enjolras cannot believe his good fortune. Surely Grantaire will not be content simply to wait until Enjolras says _yes._ After all, he is a khal, and accustomed to taking what he wants. Enjolras does not even know how to thank him for his forbearance. He had not thought to ask Miriya about Dothraki courtesies.

He wishes once more that his brother had sent a translator with him. A single night's study was not enough to impart a hundredth of what Miriya knew, and Enjolras' vocabulary is grievously limited. He has _yes_ and _no_ , should he understand a question well enough to answer it. He can say _I do not speak Dothraki_ , which should be obvious from his atrocious accent as much as from the words themselves. And there are individual words as well, words for _horse_ and _sword_ and _fire_ , along with perhaps thirty more. For verbs, he has only _ride_ , _speak_ , and _be,_ and his chart of verb forms is both woefully incomplete and spattered with candle wax. The words themselves are written out to match their sounds; he does not know if the Dothraki even _have_ a written language, and he misses the books in the magister's library with a sudden fierceness.

Has Magister LaMarque returned to Pentos yet? Has he learned of the deal that Montparnasse has made? Perhaps even now he is sending messengers to the khalasar, to pay the khal for Enjolras' safe return.

But what then? He would return to Pentos and to his brother's petty malice, until the magister leaves again and Montparnasse strikes another bargain. And Grantaire, for all the tales of Dothraki savagery, at least does not seem inclined towards cruelty. When he grows tired of waiting for Enjolras to tell him _yes_ , perhaps that will change. But he would sooner take that chance than return to Pentos.

 

On the third night, Enjolras rebuffs Grantaire again, and Grantaire once more makes no protest. In the morning, Enjolras leaves the tent at the first light of dawn, while Grantaire is still sleeping. He seeks out the pasture where the horses are quartered, searching for the stable boy who looks after his mount. The mare had seemed restless the day before, and Enjolras wants to make certain that she is better today.

The stable boy is perhaps ten years old, with the dark skin of a Summer Islander. He taps himself on the chest proudly and says "Gahro," which Enjolras can only suppose is his name. _Horse_ is one of the words Enjolras has in Dothraki, and when he says it Gahro immediately brings her to him, unsaddled and led by a simple bridle. Enjolras catches hold of the bridle in one hand and combs his fingers along her flank, looking for a burr or a bite.

The mare turns her head and nips at him in what might be an affectionate way, but it startles him. He jumps back, cursing, and Gahro laughs at him.

" _Seven fucking hells_ ," the boy echoes, and Enjolras wheels around to stare at him.

"What did you say? Did you _understand_ me? You speak the Common Tongue?"

"Seven fucking hells," he says again, grinning.

Curses, it seems, have a constancy that transcends the barriers of language. Gahro might not understand the words themselves, but he knows what sort of words they are.

So the next night, when Grantaire's fingers snarl in a tangle of his braid, Enjolras listens to the river of epithets flowing from him. He selects a few choice syllables and echoes them, slow and questioning.

Grantaire falls silent immediately and looks up at Enjolras with wide eyes. He shakes his head. "No," he says in the Common Tongue. " _No_ —" and then he is off again, speaking rapid Dothraki and shaking his head. Enjolras wonders what exactly he'd chosen to repeat, that would cause such a reaction.

Enjolras holds his hands up in surrender, though he cannot help but laugh, and Grantaire smiles in return as he reaches up to work at the tangles of his hair.

Struck by an idea, and emboldened by the warmth in Grantaire's smile, Enjolras rises from his cushion in the corner of the tent and moves to sit beside Grantaire on the bed. He reaches out for Grantaire's braid.

Grantaire tries to turn around, to look at Enjolras over his shoulder, but the motion pulls the braid out of Enjolras' reach. He catches the length of it in one hand and tugs, just a little.

"No," he says quietly.

The little bells chime against each other, and Grantaire stills. Slowly, Enjolras loosens the tangles and unbraids Grantaire's hair, setting each bell carefully aside. His fingertips brush against the bare skin of Grantaire's neck and shoulders—it is more than Enjolras has ever touched another man, and his hands shake at his own daring.

When the braid is undone, Enjolras draws away, but he gives in to one last urge to slide his fingers through Grantaire's loose hair.

Then Grantaire turns to him. "No?" he asks, as he does every night. His mouth is solemn, but his eyes are still smiling.

Enjolras hesitates. "No," he says at last. _Not yet_ , he might say, if he had the words. If he thought it would mean anything at all to Grantaire.

Grantaire nods, as though he expected this, and lies down on the bed. Enjolras skirts the edge of the bed to crawl in on the other side, and if he does not hold himself so rigidly or lie so close to the edge as he first did, there is no one here to see.

 

* * *

 

Enjolras has been with the khalasar nearly two weeks when they cross the Rhoyne below Dagger Lake. Though he has few Dothraki words and even less grammar, he can sometimes make himself understood with a gesture and a clumsy sentence. Gahro, the stable hand, is a quick study, and when Enjolras goes to visit his horse, they exchange a few words in their own languages for practice. Enjolras can name nearly every part of a horse in Dothraki now, and he knows the names of most of the mounts under Gahro's care. Gahro himself has learned as many words or more, though his favorites are still "seven fucking hells."

They make their camp beyond the river, and the khal's tent is raised on a hilltop where Enjolras can just see the southern tip of the lake. Then the sun sets, and the far shore is lost to him for the last time.

He dines with Grantaire in their tent, as he has every evening. Tonight, the wine in the earthen jug has run low, and Grantaire lifts his voice to call for more.

But the servant is not to be found, and Enjolras rises from his seat. "Let me," he says. He crosses the tent to fetch the earthen jug of wine—and at least tonight it _is_ wine, not the fermented drink they call _mare's milk_ that had half-choked him on that first night.

He turns to bring the jug back to the table, and he stumbles on the edge of a rug underfoot.

Enjolras taught himself long ago to move carefully, to avoid any mistake that might wake the dragon that slept beneath Montparnasse's smile. But even so, he cannot recover his balance this time. The jug falls from his hands, and Enjolras follows it to the floor, landing hard on his knees in a puddle of wine.

Grantaire leaps to his feet and comes around the table, and Enjolras' instincts overcome him. He flinches back, waiting for the blow to fall. It would be a backhand, if it were Montparnasse, and Enjolras could only pray that he had taken off his rings before supper.

Grantaire makes a soft sound, as though _he_ is the one who has been hit. Enjolras opens his eyes to see Grantaire bending over him, holding out a hand to pull him to his feet.

Enjolras takes it, and even when he is standing, Grantaire does not let go. He says something in Dothraki, brief and unmistakably a question. _Who_ , perhaps, or _why_.

Enjolras looks away and says nothing. Grantaire's lifts his other hand to cup Enjolras' jaw and turn his face towards him.

" _Enjolras_."

"My brother," Enjolras says at last, turning his gaze from the solemn look in Grantaire's eyes. He does not know the Dothraki word, but he can see the understanding in Grantaire's eyes.

Grantaire says something low and vicious, a word Enjolras has never heard before. But his thumb strokes lightly over the line of Enjolras' cheekbone, just where a blow might have fallen. " _No_ ," he says in the Common Tongue, and the word has the ring of a vow.

  

A few days beyond the river, Enjolras gets his first glimpse of the Dothraki Sea. They climb a ridge, and tall grasses stretch out before them as far as he can see, rippling in the wind.

He reins up to look his fill, and Grantaire stops beside him. " _Havazh Dothraki_ ," he says, and there is a question in his tone, as though he is seeking Enjolras' approval.

" _Lain_ ," Enjolras ventures. _Beautiful._

Grantaire turns to look at him. He reaches out and tips Enjolras' chin up with a fingertip. " _Lain_ ," he echoes, smiling.

Enjolras' face blazes hot, and he ducks his head. Grantaire's laugh is a light, teasing thing, and Enjolras thinks for the first time _maybe soon_. Not tonight, but someday soon, he promises himself that he will look into Grantaire's eyes and say _yes_.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings: Fear of rape (which does not happen), discussion of and reaction to past physical abuse.


	3. Chapter 3

At first it seems as though the Dothraki Sea is endless and empty, as barren as the ocean itself. Now that they have left the crowded Rhoyne valley behind, the khalasar's pace eases. Sometimes they stay in one place for a day or more, and Enjolras tries to make himself useful in some way—helping Gahro with the horses, or repairing the stitched hides of the tents with some of Grantaire's bloodriders. Once he wanders too close to the cook-tent and finds himself pressed into service there, stirring a vast pot of stew while being made to taste everything that the cooks plan to serve in the khal's tent. He gathers Dothraki words as he goes, echoing names for foods and weapons and flowers in equal measure.

Grantaire leads them across the plains easily, though Enjolras does not know how he can be so sure of himself, without roads or landmarks to guide him. The sun burns hot overhead and sets at their backs, the only sign that they are moving east.

But after more than a week of riding, Enjolras sees a haze on the horizon, like a second sunrise low in the sky. By midmorning the next day, the haze has resolved itself into the massed cookfires of a camp many times the size of the khalasar, nearly a city unto itself.

There are tents, wagons, whole caravans full of merchants. When the khalasar settles at the edge of the gathering, Enjolras stumbles over old flagstones scattered among the grasses. He wonders what ancient city once stood here—it must have been grand indeed, if the traders still gather here, a thousand years after it was razed.

In the morning Grantaire and his bloodriders set out to trade. He gestures for Enjolras to join him, with something that sounds like a question. Enjolras nods and follows him.

They walk in companionable silence through the tall grasses. The scattered white blocks of stone become more frequent, and finally they reach a length of tumbledown wall, barely higher than the grasses that surround it.

"Vaes Khadokh," Grantaire says. "Essaria."

_Essaria_. Enjolras has read of the city before. East of Qohor, it had been destroyed in a Dothraki raid centuries ago. These fallen stones are the only sign that anyone has ever lived here.

Enjolras casts a sidelong glance at Grantaire. Thus far, he has only seen the khalasar at peace; this broken wall is a grim testament to the strength of the Dothraki at war. "Vaes Khadokh," he echoes carefully.

Grantaire nods his approval.

The market is raucous and lively, selling all of the things that a khalasar might need before setting out across the plains of the Dothraki Sea. There are barrels of water and wine, bolts of cloth, and strings of lean, strong horses. There are less-savory things as well—Enjolras sees a dozen or more people in iron collars and manacles, and the trampled grasses are full of the ring and clatter of chains.

But if Grantaire does not seem appalled by the presence of slaves, at least he does not try to purchase them. That is a relief—Enjolras would prefer not to fight with Grantaire in the middle of a market in a language they do not share. He knows that the Dothraki often buy and sell slaves, that his own place in the khalasar is scarcely different from that of a slave. Still, he does not approve, and he will make himself known if he must.

A bowyer's cart catches his eye, and Enjolras steps away for a closer look. The bowyer is oiling a recurve bow made of red-brown yew, already shining in the sunlight. When he sees Enjolras approach, he holds it out to him.

It feels right in his hand, well-balanced and strong. He had a bow much like it once, though smaller and not so fine. He had practiced with it in the gardens of the house with the red door, until his brother sold the bow along with most of Enjolras' other possessions, in the hopes of buying his army.

"Want?" Grantaire asks, startling him. It is strange to hear him say it in daylight, in the midst of a crowd. It makes Enjolras' face burn.

He shakes his head and sets the bow down. "I am sorry—I was only..."

Grantaire turns to the bowyer instead, questioning, and the bowyer replies with a number. While Enjolras is trying to figure out whether he said six or sixteen or sixty, Grantaire lays a few silver coins on the bowyer's table and hands the bow to Enjolras.

"Thank you," Enjolras says. "Thank you so much, I—"

Grantaire shrugs, and Enjolras wishes once more that he had asked Miriya how the Dothraki say _thank you_.

Beyond the bowyer's stall is a makeshift archery range, with bales of hay piled before another low stone wall. There are blankets thrown over the bales, already rent and ragged from dozens of arrows.

The bowyer presents Enjolras with a coiled bowstring and a quiver of eight blunt-tipped arrows. He glances back at Grantaire, who is watching him with a hint of a smile lurking in the corners of his eyes. This is a test of some kind—perhaps the bowyer will not sell to an unskilled archer.

Enjolras strings the bow and pulls it back for practice. The draw is somewhat heavier than he is used to, but it will serve. He pulls an arrow from the quiver and fits it to the string. Beyond the hay bales and the stone wall is the empty plain of the Dothraki Sea, so he need not fear what might happen if he misses.

He draws the string back, takes a breath, and lets the arrow fly.

The arrow sails wide of the blankets, barely catching the lowest edge of the hay bale. He hears a faint laugh somewhere behind him, quickly silenced. Not Grantaire's laugh—a bloodrider, maybe, amused at his poor shot. Enjolras pushes the thought of his audience out of his mind and draws back another arrow.

This time he knows what to expect. He looses the arrow and watches it pierce one of the faded blankets in the very center. No one laughs now. He draws six more arrows and lets them fly in quick succession, not marking where they hit until he is finished.

He has shot better before, but all seven arrows stand closely grouped at the heart of the ruined blanket.

Enjolras nods to himself, satisfied. He unstrings the bow and holds it out to return it to Grantaire, but he only shakes his head and smiles.

 

The next morning, Enjolras accompanies Grantaire and his bloodriders to the horse markets at the northern edge of the ancient city. He cannot imagine why the khalasar would need _more_ horses, when already their mounts outnumber their riders, but even if he knew how to ask, he would not dare.

By the time the sun has risen overhead, he knows he has made a mistake in following Grantaire to the horse traders. The day is cool, with a breeze that blows the noise and scent of the market towards them, and he cannot abide another moment standing in horse muck and listening to traders barter with each other in a language he does not speak. He taps Grantaire's shoulder.

"I...go?" he ventures in broken Dothraki. He gestures towards the rest of the market.

"Yes."

To Enjolras' surprise, Grantaire presses a handful of silver coins into his palm—money that he has not earned. Enjolras dips his head in thanks. But when he turns to leave, three of Grantaire's bloodriders fall in beside him.

"Grantaire? What are they doing?" he asks in the Common Tongue, and Grantaire understands enough of the question to respond the same way.

"You take."

" _Three_ bloodriders? To walk through a market?"

Grantaire only shrugs, not understanding, and Enjolras resigns himself to being a spectacle.

"Very well, then." He turns away from the horse-sellers and walks back towards the market itself, too conscious of the three bloodriders looming behind him. At least Bahoro is among his guards. He is the tall guard who stood beside Grantaire on the day that Enjolras joined the khalasar, and Enjolras has seen him smiling more than once. It is good to know that the Dothraki are not entirely without humor, after all.

But his humor is not on display this afternoon. None of the guards speak the Common Tongue, of course, and they brood over Enjolras like mother hens, as though they mean to draw their swords should anyone even speak to him. He feels less like he is wandering the market, and more like he is being herded through it.

From a little stall comes the sweet smell of almonds, spiced and sugared and roasted over a fire. Enjolras seizes his chance. He pays a few coppers to the stall-keeper, and she fills a little cloth pouch with the almonds. Enjolras picks one up, nearly burning his fingers, and pops it into his mouth. He hands the bag to Bahoro.

"Eat," he says, matching the word with a gesture.

Bahoro tentatively places an almond in his mouth, and then his solemn face bursts into a smile. He passes the bag to the other bloodriders, and the four of them share out the almonds together.

After that, their trip to the market grows more pleasant. Though he cannot speak to them, Enjolras thinks that perhaps they have some rapport now. The bloodriders chatter back and forth, laughing and shoving at one another, but always wary for any trouble.

"Wine! Sweet wines from Westeros! Fossaway ciders, mead from the North, Dornish reds!"

Enjolras pulls up short at the sound of the voice, speaking the Common Tongue. LaMarque had been dearly fond of Dornish wines and had often served them at his table. He gestures to the bloodriders to follow him as he wends his way through the market stalls to the wine merchant. He is pale, from somewhere north of Dorne, no doubt, and he smiles at Enjolras' approach.

"Did you say you had Dornish reds?" Enjolras asks, and the merchant nods.

"Yes, yes. Three barrels, five silvers apiece. How many will you be wanting?"

"All of them," Enjolras replies, laying his coin on the merchant's table. "The khalasar is camped just to the west—do you have a servant who might deliver it there?"

"I have an Astapori lad who runs such errands for me." He looks up at Enjolras and seems to see him for the first time. "Merciful Mother," he murmurs.

"Ser?"

"You...you are the young dragon, yes?"

"I—you mean my brother, I am sure—"

"No, no. You are the dragon who rides with a khal."

Has word traveled here so quickly? "I am," he says. There is little point in denial now.

The merchant bows low. "You do me a great honor, to look upon my meager wares. Here, you must have this, from my personal stores." The merchant hauls a small cask from his cart. "I did not think to sell this, but it is fate that I have brought it today."

"What is it?"

"Elderflower wine, from Highgarden. Sweet as sin and rare as dragon-scales."

"How much?" Enjolras asks, eyeing the cask doubtfully. The man will charge him a fortune, no doubt, believing that his flattery has eased the way.

"It is my gift to you, to House Targaryen. You must take it home and share it with your khal. I ask only that you drink to my health."

Enjolras turns to look at his three bodyguards, and he nods to himself. "You may rest assured that we will do so. But first, I would have you pour us each a cup. My men are no doubt thirsty, and they would be pleased to have a drink."

The merchant looks appalled. "But—good ser, this wine is not for the likes of them. They have not the palate to appreciate the vintage."

"Never mind that," Enjolras says sharply. The merchant's words remind him of what Montparnasse had said, on that last morning in Pentos. The memory threatens to sour Enjolras' good mood. "They will drink with me. Fetch us each a cup."

"As my lord commands," the merchant replies. He gathers four cups and taps the little cask, filling each cup partway. Enjolras hands the cups to each of the bloodriders, and he begins to lift his own cup in a toast. Then he pauses and turns back to the merchant.

"Forgive me, I have forgotten all my manners today. Will you not drink with us?" Enjolras asks. "You deserve that much at least, for your generosity."

"Oh, no, my lord. I would not dream of it."

"Please. If the vintage is so rare, you should have the chance to taste it, too."

"Ah, but elderflower wine is not to my taste, my lord. Forgive me."

A bead of sweat drips down the edge of the merchant's face, although the day is cool. His eyes dart from side to side. What could be the matter? He had not even blinked when Enjolras approached his stall with three massive Dothraki guards in tow.

Something seems very wrong. If elderflower wine is not to the merchant's taste, why had he kept this cask in his personal stores?

"I insist," Enjolras says firmly, holding out his cup. "We will drink together, to Westeros and House Targaryen."

The merchant reaches for the cup with a trembling hand, and then he wheels around and runs.

Enjolras turns to stop his bodyguards before they drink the wine, knowing now what he had only feared before. But as one they fling their cups to the ground and take off after the wine merchant.

The merchant has fear on his side, but he is old. The bloodriders will catch him soon enough. Enjolras lingers behind to make certain that even the dregs of their wine cups have been spilled into the trampled grasses.

He has never been safe. How many times has his brother told him that? There are enemies around every corner, daggers behind every smile. There is no one a Targaryen may trust, save another Targaryen—and they are the last.

He has never been safe, but he had begun to wonder whether he could be, one day. He will not make that mistake again. Enjolras squares his shoulders and follows the bloodriders through the market.

The merchant had chosen his path wisely—he nearly reached the horse stalls. If he had managed to gain a mount, he might have made his escape.

The merchant is clever, yes, but Bahoro is fast. When Enjolras reaches them, the man is on his knees, bleeding. His face is cut, as though from a whip, but he lives yet. Grantaire's bloodriders stand around him, still and foreboding as statues. When Bahoro speaks, Enjolras can only make out the word _khal_.

He shakes his head. "I don't understand."

The commotion has drawn the attention of the horse traders. Several of them join the throng around the merchant, and Enjolras sees Grantaire among them.

When Grantaire realizes that Enjolras and his bodyguards are at the center of the crowd, he pushes through the gathered onlookers and snaps a question at Bahoro. Bahoro replies at length, and Enjolras watches Grantaire's eyes go wide and sharp.

He hauls the wine merchant to his feet and shakes him roughly. He says something in Dothraki, something Enjolras does not understand, and then shoves the man back to the ground. His hand is on the hilt of his curved arakh, and Enjolras does not want to learn what the penalty might be for spilling blood within the borders of the market.

Enjolras steps between Grantaire and the wine merchant. "Wait—tell me what you are doing. I do not understand."

Grantaire shakes his head. He speaks slowly, for Enjolras' benefit, but there are too many unfamiliar words for him to make sense of it.

A voice echoes from the crowd, in the blessed tones of the Common Tongue. "He says that this man will pay the price for trying to murder the khal's beloved."

_Beloved?_ Enjolras turns to find a woman standing at the edge of the circle. Her skin is dark, her hair twisted into tight plaits. She wears a soft grey robe that might belong to a priest or a healer.

"What price is that?" Enjolras asks her.

"He said that the man must be tied to a length of rope and made to walk behind the khalasar, until he is dead."

Enjolras winces. "I want to speak to him first. My lady, could you tell the khal that I wish to speak to this man?"

"Of course." She turns to Grantaire, and they exchange words in Dothraki. Satisfied, the woman nods and gestures to Enjolras.

"Thank you." He approaches the wine merchant, who is still cowering on his knees. Grantaire makes ready to step between them, as though afraid that the merchant might still pose some threat, but Enjolras gently nudges him aside.

"Who sent you here?" he asks the merchant. "What were you paid?"

"No pay," he babbles. "No one sent me. Please, good ser—"

"You chose to poison a stranger, then? I think not. You heard what fate awaits you. Tell me who sent you here, and perhaps I will grant you a kinder death."

"King Robert—there was a bounty—to any man who could prove the death of a Targaryen. Lands and titles—"

"You would kill for this? A plot of land and a _lord_ before your name?" Enjolras sneers. "Westerosi honor is cheaply bought."

If he had not been struck by the thought of sharing a cup of wine with his bodyguards, then he would have brought the wine home to Grantaire. They would have shared it over supper, raised a toast to each other, and then—

"Mercy," the merchant begs, reaching for the toe of Enjolras' boot. "Mercy, my lord—"

Bahoro lifts his whip, but Enjolras raises a hand to stop him. "Very well," he says. "You shall have the same measure of mercy that you would have given me." Without turning, he raises his voice to address the translator. "My lady, if you would be so kind as to ask Bahoro here to bring me the cask of poisoned wine?"

She relays his request to Bahoro. He frowns and looks to Grantaire for permission, and he nods. Bahoro lopes off towards the merchant's stall.

Grantaire turns to look at Enjolras. The fury in his eyes has softened to something different, something Enjolras cannot quite name. He raises one hand to touch Enjolras' cheek, and he says something in Dothraki.

"He would know if you are well," the woman offers, unprompted.

Enjolras nods. "I am." In truth, he knows that this day will trouble him for a long time, but he is the blood of the dragon—he will show no weakness, not here and not now.

Bahoro returns with the cask, a wooden cup, and a cold satisfaction on his face. He has already guessed Enjolras' intent. He places the cask in front of Enjolras, and Enjolras fills the cup. He holds it out to the merchant.

"Now," Enjolras says, very calmly. "Drink to my health."

The man is weeping now. "Please— _please_ , my children—"

"Will grow all the wiser, without your example." If indeed they exist. "Drink, or I will gladly give you over to Dothraki justice."

The merchant takes the cup in shaking hands. Enjolras half-expects him to dash it on the ground or throw the wine in Enjolras' face. But given the choice between a slow death or a swift one, the man finds some scrap of courage at last. He lifts the cup to his lips and drinks.

It begins almost instantly. The merchant's eyes widen. The cup falls from his hands, spilling wine into the dirt. His breath becomes a terrible groan, and he claws furrows in his throat as though it will help. And then the groans stop. The merchant's struggles weaken and slow, until his eyes roll back and he tumbles face-first to the ground.

Enjolras should be horrified—he has never watched a man die before, and this one is dead at his command. But he feels only a sense of justice, grim and unyielding. This was a necessary death.

Behind him, Bahoro smashes the cask and spills every drop of wine into the grassy earth. Grantaire gestures for Enjolras to follow him back to the camp. Suddenly exhausted, Enjolras wants nothing more than to return to the protection of their tent, but he has a debt that he must repay first.

He seeks out the woman in the grey robes, the one who had translated for him. "My lady," he calls to her.

She turns to look at him, and he bends to offer a deep bow. "I am Enjolras Targaryen," he says, "and I would be pleased to know your name."

"My name is Zetta," she says. If she is surprised to be speaking with a prince, she does not show it.

"Zetta, I thank you for your aid. Without it, I feel the scene might have been...a great deal worse."

She inclines her head. "I was glad to be of help. And it is good to hear the language of our home spoken here."

"If there is anything you need, anything that the khal can provide, I will see to it that you are rewarded."

"I need nothing, but I thank you."

Enjolras frowns at her. "Who are you, then, that would ask nothing when offered everything?"

"I am a healer, and a traveler," she says. "I go where I will, and where I am needed."

"I understand."

"But, if you would grant me a boon..."

"Anything," Enjolras says, meaning it.

"I would be pleased to travel with your khalasar for a time. It is dangerous to travel the Dothraki Sea alone, and there is much I can do to earn my way."

"Even if you do nothing more, you have still more than paid your keep with what you have done today." Enjolras hesitates. "But...if you have a mind to aid us, I think your languages might be of as much use as your healer's skills."

She walks back to the camp with him, looking around her with curiosity rather than fear. It must be a very different thing to arrive in a khalasar as a guest, free to come and go as one pleases.

They go to the khal's tent first, to wait for Grantaire. Though Enjolras doubts that Grantaire would deny him any reasonable request after today, it would be easiest to gain his approval first.

When Grantaire steps into the tent, he seems only a little surprised to see Zetta there. He nods a greeting to her, and then turns to Enjolras with a questioning look on his face.

"This is Zetta, from the marketplace," Enjolras says. "I asked her what reward she would want, for her aid today, and she asked that she be allowed to ride with the khalasar for a time. She is a healer."

Zetta relays Enjolras' words to Grantaire, who looks at her with a newfound respect when he replies.

"He says that a healer is always welcome in the khalasar," Zetta translates.

"Good." Enjolras takes a deep breath. "And I would have her join us at our meals, as it pleases her, so that we might learn each other's tongue more easily."

Zetta gives him a sly smile. "If you want to learn his _tongue_ , my prince, I think it might best be done in private."

"Zetta! Please do not tell him that," he begs. But he has no way of knowing what she says to Grantaire in response.

Whatever it is, Grantaire nods.

"Zetta, can you tell him—no, tell me. How do you say _thank you_ in Dothraki?"

She frowns, considering. "There is no word for _thanks_ or _gratitude_. Dothraki courtesies are not the same as those of the Andals."

Enjolras sighs, casting about for a different expression. "Could I tell him that I am _pleased_ , instead?"

"You can. Try this." She says something in slow, careful Dothraki.

Enjolras does his best to echo the words, but Grantaire's eyes widen, and Zetta stifles a laugh behind her hand.

"What? What did I say?"

"You said _I please you_."

Enjolras' face burns hot. "Oh, no—"

"Yes," Grantaire says in Common, and then something else in Dothraki.

Zetta translates. "He says that you _do_ please him, every day you spend by his side."

Enjolras buries his face in his hands. "Zetta, please tell the khal that I am sorry, and that I will try to say things properly next time."

Grantaire laughs at Zetta's translation and waves a hand in farewell as he moves to leave the tent. But at the threshold he looks back. He says something in a solemn, quiet voice, and then he walks away.

"What was that?" Enjolras asks. "What he said, at the end?"

The look she gives him is piercing. "He says that he would have grieved to lose you, in the market today. He is glad you are safe."

And Enjolras does not know what to say to that.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see end notes for content warnings.

In the weeks that follow, Zetta becomes a guest at their table four days out of every five. With her help, Grantaire and Enjolras trade words back and forth in Dothraki and the Common Tongue. Enjolras learns that the Dothraki _do_ have a written language, though it is better suited to battle plans than letter-writing, and Grantaire begins to understand why Enjolras is always saying _thank you_.

Sometimes they are joined at their meals by a few of Grantaire's bloodriders—Bahoro, most often, and little Gahro with his fearsome elder sister Eponine. With Zetta's aid, they can manage simple conversation, and the change is a vast relief to Enjolras. He had not realized how lonely he had been until the loneliness was past.

After a moon's turn, Enjolras and Grantaire can speak together even without Zetta to translate. Enjolras practices his Dothraki, and Grantaire his Common, and they correct each other when they err. Their talk is careful and innocent, as though they are both wary of what they might learn about each other.

This morning, the sunrise is blood-red in the east, and the air is heavy and still. Even the horses seem uneasy.

"Grantaire? What is wrong?"

He looks grim. " _Vaz jadak_."

_A storm is coming._

There were plenty of storms in Pentos, rolling in from the Narrow Sea. They brought cold rain and pounding surf, fierce winds and lightning that slashed across sky and sea. He had been born in such a storm, or so his brother told him, and perhaps that is why he had always secretly exulted when the clouds thickened and the thunder rumbled across the waves.

But Grantaire looks like a man going into battle, and Enjolras wonders if the storms on the Dothraki Sea are different from those he remembers. In Pentos, there had been stone walls to keep out the elements, but here there would be only the heavy stitched hides of their tents.

Clouds gather behind them as they ride, dimming the light from the rising sun. Though they cannot have traveled more than two leagues, they stop before noon.

Grantaire sighs as he calls a halt. "I hoped the storm might waste its breath," he tells Enjolras. "Sometimes they do." He dismounts and calls out to his bloodriders, shouting orders to stake down the tents and raise a shelter for the horses as swiftly as they can.

"What can I do?" Enjolras asks him.

"Wait here, and go into the tent when it is raised."

"No, I want to help."

A faint smile breaks through Grantaire's serious expression. "Go to Gahro, then. Help tie the horses."

Enjolras nods and takes their horses' reins to lead them to Gahro.

Grantaire calls after him. "Enjolras—come back at the first drops."

"I will."

"The first drops," he says again. "Yes?"

"Yes."

Enjolras makes his way to the vast pasture where the horses are being gathered. At one end of the field, people are raising a shelter for the mounts, open-sided but roofed with heavy canvas. The mounts roam contentedly nearby, and Gahro is there with a dozen of the other hostlers, tying the legs of the horses so that their gait is too short for running. Enjolras watches them until he can copy their knots, and then he takes a dozen lengths of rope and joins them.

The sun is covered over by clouds now, and the wind whipping out of the north, riding ahead of the storm, brings a chill.

Something splashes against the back of his hand. Enjolras tells himself that it was not a raindrop but a bead of cold sweat, and moves on to the next horse. There are only a few left to be hobbled now, and he would hate to see one hurt because he had not been able to finish his work.

Gahro appears at his shoulder, herding half a dozen horses towards the shelter. "We have to go. The rest of them will find their way."

"I know. Go, Gahro, I can finish here." Gahro's tent is farther than Grantaire's, and his sister will worry if he is away too long.

"But—"

"Go," he repeats, moving on to the last horse. "This will not take long."

Gahro gives him a doubtful look, but he runs off towards the tent he shares with his sister. Enjolras kneels to slip the rope around the horse's legs, and a few more drops patter on the back of his neck.

The wind begins to rise, and Enjolras looks up to see a heavy fog rolling in from the north. He realizes his error too late—it is not fog, but a thick curtain of rain, obscuring everything as it sweeps towards him.

Enjolras nudges the horse towards the shelter. He turns and runs for their tent, but the storm is quicker. It catches him before he reaches the edge of the pasture, and in a heartbeat he is soaked to the skin, and lost. The rain turns the world to shape and shadow.

A flash of lightning illuminates the whole camp for an instant like the noonday sun, followed by the deafening crash of thunder. His bearings restored, Enjolras makes his way to the khal's tent and pushes inside. The roar of the storm is softened by the walls of the tent, and the lit brazier makes for a blessed warmth.

Grantaire stops pacing and looks up at him. "Mother of mountains!" he swears, raising his voice over the drumming of the rain on the tent roof. "I told you—the first drops."

Enjolras looks down. "I wanted to finish the work." He stiffens to hide a shiver.

Grantaire sighs and pulls one of the blankets off the edge of their bed to wrap it around Enjolras' shoulders. "Dry, or you will be cold."

Enjolras steps behind a painted silk screen and peels off his soaked clothes. He dries off as best he can, and then he dresses again, in fresh clothes. Already he feels warmer.

"Come and sit," Grantaire says, when he emerges from behind the screen. "Are you hungry?"

He hadn't been, or hadn't realized it, until Grantaire spoke, but he is suddenly ravenous after the morning's work. He sits down with Grantaire, relishing the warmth of the brazier, and helps himself to some of the food on their low table. He takes less than he might on another day—he does not know how long the storm might last, and he does not want their supplies to run out. He pours them each a cup of wine and hands Grantaire's cup to him.

"How long will we be here?" Enjolras asks.

"If we have luck, the storm will pass before morning, but riding will be bad for days. The horses can stumble—it may be best to stay here, but..."

"What is the matter?"

Grantaire's expression darkens. "The scouts have seen signs of other khalasars, not far away. If they wish to make war on us, we will have no choice but to stand and fight."

Enjolras feels a chill that goes deeper than the rain. Of course he knows that khalasars often fight, but to think that such a thing might happen to  _their_ khalasar, at any moment, is disquieting. The sooner this storm ends, the better it will be for all of them. The storms in Pentos often blew themselves out in only an hour or two, but in the rainy season there could come much larger storms that would rage for a day or more. This, perhaps, is more akin to that.

The noise of rain on the roof grows louder and heavier, as though someone on high is casting stones down upon the tent.

"Hail," Grantaire says. "Drops of ice as large as pebbles."

He has seen hailstones before, once or twice. They splashed into the sea with amazing force, but Enjolras had never known how _loud_ a storm could be, without the fastness of stone walls around him. He hopes the hail does not come crashing through the hides of their tent.

The thought of being at the mercy of the howling wind and battering hail is unnerving, and he casts about for a distraction.

He takes a sip of wine. "May I ask you something?"

Grantaire looks up at him. "Anything, always."

The frankness of his reply makes Enjolras duck his head. "I am wonder—wondering how you bought me," he says in Dothraki, for practice.

He knows _why_ , of course, though Grantaire still has never laid a hand on him, not since those first days when Enjolras could not dismount unaided. He still unbraids Grantaire's hair for him most nights, but he almost misses being helped down from his horse.

When Grantaire replies, he speaks in careful Common. "It was by chance. Your brother, he came to my man in the market at Pentos, said he had a brother of—strange desires, and he asked Mabo if his khal wanted..." Grantaire shakes his head. " _Rakh-mezhah_?"

Enjolras has not heard the two words together, but he knows them separately. "Boy-whore," he supplies grimly.

"Yes. He says his brother is very eager, to hurry or he will be bought by another. He says also that you are beautiful—the only truth, I think, he tells."

Enjolras flushes and looks down, hoping that the light from the brazier is too low for Grantaire to see his face.

"So Mabo comes to me in our camp beyond the river, and he tells me the story. When I hear it, I think—what man sells his brother? A bad one, only. And if I do not buy him, maybe he will go to someone worse than this brother. I tell Mabo yes, buy this _rakh-mezhah_ for me, and he goes back to the city to find your brother. Then your brother says there is another who wishes to buy you, and he names a price double of before."

Enjolras wonders if Montparnasse had lied to Grantaire, or if he nearly _had_ sent Enjolras to someone else. The thought makes him shudder, realizing how close he might have come to a different fate, and Grantaire mistakes the shiver for a chill. He breaks off the telling to stir the coals in their brazier.

"But you paid his price anyway," Enjolras prompts, when he finishes.

"Yes. I send Mabo to tell your brother, to make the agreement. I say that we will come after a moon's turn, so that my coming is no surprise to you."

And yet Montparnasse had waited until the last day to tell him. Not long ago, Enjolras would have burned with anger, but now he can feel only a distant pity for a man who takes such joy in petty cruelties.

"In that moon, I hoped for Mabo to teach me your Common, but he rode to the Night Lands only three days later."

"Oh—I am sorry," Enjolras says. He knows only a little of the Dothraki faith, but he is aware that the Night Lands is the name for their afterlife.

But Grantaire is smiling. "No 'sorry'. He was a good warrior, _ko_ to my father, and he died well. When I bring your brother his gold, with Bahoro as my guard, I see for certain it is all lies. You are beautiful, yes, but you are not _ivezh_ , not...wild. You are afraid."

Enjolras bows his head. Yes, he had been afraid. As much as he feared his brother, at least he had known what to expect from him, how to stave off his brother's rages. Grantaire had been a stranger, in some ways a more terrifying prospect still.

Grantaire reaches out to cup Enjolras' cheek in one hand. "Do not be shamed. You were very brave. You spoke Dothraki, you were courtesy—"

"Courteous," Enjolras says gently.

" _Courteous_ ," Grantaire corrects, his voice careful around the new syllables. "You asked for bread and salt, which I know is Western promise of—safeness? Safety. I knew then that you did not trust your brother, and I am eager to take you from him, to make you safe. But you do not know this, and you are skittish."

" _Skittish_?" Enjolras echoes, aghast.

"Yes, like a colt. You did not let anyone touch you, and to be too close to another person made you startle."

Put in such a way, it is not so strange that Grantaire would call him _skittish_. "If I shied away, it was because I thought you would...take me, whether I willed it or no," Enjolras admits.

"Ah. You have heard stories that traders tell, then."

"There are many rumors about the khals." The Dothraki word for _rumor_ is nearly the same as _wind_ , and Enjolras finds that pleasing. "Was I wrong to believe them?"

"Some khals are as they say—perhaps many. But not all are alike."

"I know that, now."

"This is why I ask you each night, so you know that I will not take what you would not give." He looks at Enjolras very solemnly. "If you like, I will not ask you again."

Enjolras stares at him, stunned. What will Grantaire do if he says _never ask me again_? He will take another lover, one day, and Enjolras will be left on his own. He has never slept so well in his life as he does beside the khal, and he would miss his company, now that they can talk together. And he has grown fond of Grantaire—Grantaire who had only ever wanted to keep him safe, and who demanded no price in return. Grantaire who has patiently learned the Common Tongue so that he can speak with Enjolras more easily.

Yet does he have the right to let Grantaire hope for an answer that may never come?

In the end, he only shakes his head. "You may ask me. I cannot promise that my answer will change, but you may always ask."

Grantaire nods, and Enjolras forges ahead, stumbling over the Dothraki words in his haste.

"And—should you wish to take your...your pleasure elsewhere, please do not deny yourself because of me," he says. His face is burning, and he cannot meet Grantaire's eyes.

"You are kind indeed," Grantaire says. "Few would be so generous with their—" The Dothraki word he uses is unfamiliar to Enjolras, but he has reached the limit of his daring for one conversation. He will have to ask Zetta in the morning.

 

* * *

 

Enjolras wakes in the small hours before dawn, unsure of what has woken him. The tent is silent—there is no wind, and no rain. The storm has passed.

The quiet has woken Grantaire, too, and he pushes the bedclothes away. Enjolras turns to look at him, barely making out his shape in the darkness.

"Is everything all right?" he asks.

"I must see to the camp," Grantaire says to him. "Sleep." He reaches out and tugs at the disarranged blankets until they cover Enjolras' shoulders again. The gesture makes a strange feeling lodge itself behind Enjolras' breastbone, an ache that is not quite pain.

Enjolras settles back down as Grantaire crosses the tent and lights a lamp. Curled on his side, he half-opens his eyes to see Grantaire standing before the washbasin. He has not dressed yet, and Enjolras can see the muscles of his back and his shoulders in the dim light. He tells himself that he will not look lower than that.

Grantaire raises cupped hands to his face, and Enjolras imagines the drops of water sliding down Grantaire's face, his neck, his chest...

The tent is suddenly warm, almost suffocating, but he is grateful for the heavy bedclothes. If he had but a little more courage, he would speak, would coax Grantaire back to bed somehow, but he keeps his silence as Grantaire dresses and leaves the tent.

He waits for a long moment, until he is sure that Grantaire will not come back for something forgotten, and then he slips one hand beneath the blankets. He strokes himself quickly and without finesse—he has not touched himself this way since he left Pentos, and it will not take long.

He closes his eyes and imagines Grantaire's hand in place of his own, Grantaire's body pressed against him, lit gold by the candlelight. His hands would be rough, but his touch would be kind—Enjolras is certain of that, now. He spreads his legs wider, biting down on his bottom lip to hold in the sounds that threaten to escape him.

He spills over his hand with a long, shaking sigh. He lies still and waits for the pounding of his heart to slow, and then he rises from the bed and crosses the tent to wash.

He is barely dressed again when Grantaire returns, a smile lighting his face. "The storm was not so bad as I feared. We will ride today," he says.

"Good," Enjolras replies, and his voice is nearly steady.

Grantaire pauses in the act of donning his arakh and frowns at Enjolras. "You look flushed. Are you well?"

He ducks his head. "Well enough, thank you."

"We can rest for the morning, if—"

" _No_ ," Enjolras says, too forcefully. "I—I would rather ride. We have been too long in close quarters."

Grantaire's expression tightens, and Enjolras wishes that the words had come out differently.

"Forgive me. I did not mean that I was tired of your company, only that...I miss being able to see the sky."

Grantaire smiles again at that. "You sound like a Dothraki," he says, and Enjolras accepts it for the praise it is.

 

The storm has beaten down the grasses, but the earth beneath the grass churns to thick mud as the horses pass. For two days the khalasar's progress is achingly slow. Enjolras is comforted by the knowledge that an enemy khalasar will make no better progress. He cannot suppose that any khal would wish to make war on a battlefield like this.

Still, horses founder and tempers run short; Grantaire's bloodriders are more likely to snap at each other than to laugh and jest. Even Grantaire is sullen and quiet in the evenings. They eat their supper, Enjolras unbraids Grantaire's hair, and they sleep.

Or Grantaire sleeps, at least. Enjolras, for his part, spends far too long lying awake, wondering if he will ever have the courage to turn over and reach out for Grantaire.

On the third night, Grantaire goes out to mediate an argument between two of his bloodriders over a foal produced by their mounts. Enjolras seeks out a servant and asks her to bring him a skin of the drink that the khal calls _mare's milk_.

There is nothing wrong, he thinks, with a need to fortify his courage. He wants this, has wanted it for a long time, but he dreads disappointing Grantaire. He knows now that Grantaire would never send him back to his brother, but that knowledge does not lessen his desire to please him.

The sharp taste that once turned his stomach now tastes sweet after a day's hard riding. He starts with a small cup, and when Grantaire does not return, a second. Then a third, and to his surprise, the mare's milk is soon gone. It leaves him feeling heady and warm, so he unlaces his dyed leather vest and lays it aside. He paces the tent, unsure if he should wait for Grantaire like this, or simply disrobe entirely and crawl beneath the bedclothes to await him. He sits on the edge of the bed with his hands tight in his lap, somewhere between fear and anticipation.

Grantaire pushes aside the flap of their tent, caked in mud halfway to his knees, and stops when he sees Enjolras waiting for him. Enjolras draws himself up, reaching out to steady himself against one of the tent-poles. "Ask me," he says, and he is not sure whether the words come out in Common or in Dothraki. "Ask me if I want you."

Grantaire only looks at him—perhaps he had spoken in Common, then. But the Dothraki words have all fled his mind, leaving him with the one word that he knows Grantaire will understand.

"Yes," he says, lifting his chin. He is not sure whether he means to be demure or defiant. All he knows is that he is drunk on mare's milk and reckless with it, and he _wants_.

Grantaire closes the distance between them, and Enjolras wonders if Grantaire means to kiss him. He has never dared to imagine _tenderness_ from Grantaire, though he no longer expects to be used by him.

Grantaire cups Enjolras' face in one hand, and Enjolras turns his head to kiss his palm. Grantaire's smile is soft and rueful. "No," he says.

He leaves the tent, and Enjolras collapses onto the bed like a forgotten toy. What has he done wrong? Has he denied Grantaire so many times that he no longer wants him at all? His head spins, and he does not know if it is the mare's milk or his own confusion that is the cause.

Grantaire returns, long moments later, with a cup of cool water that he presses into Enjolras' hands. "Drink," he says in Common, and Enjolras does as he is asked. When he would have stopped halfway, and laid the cup aside, Grantaire shakes his head. He watches until Enjolras has drunk it all, and then he helps him into bed. Enjolras relishes every incidental touch of Grantaire's hands on his skin, rough fingertips careful against his shoulder, his hip. Grantaire douses the lamps, and Enjolras is asleep before Grantaire lies down beside him.

When he wakes in the middle of the night and stumbles out of the tent to be sick, he fever-dreams that Grantaire is there, too, one hand warm on the back of Enjolras' neck where the sweat dries and chills in the night air.

"Ah, _shekh ma shieraki anni_ ," he says, or perhaps Enjolras only imagines it.

 

In the morning his head aches brutally, and the cup by his bedside that he first takes for water is revealed to be a thick, spicy posset. It nearly makes him ill all over again, but after a while the pounding in his head eases. He knows it is late morning by the sounds of the camp being dismantled around him, but he has no desire to move until he must.

He has made a fool of himself, and he cannot begin to know how he might apologize for his behavior. Grantaire is gone from the tent already, no doubt readying their mounts for the day's ride. Enjolras should be out helping him, but his stomach is still sour, and he dares not stir just yet.

Then Grantaire steps into the tent, and Enjolras rushes to rise. He does not wish for Grantaire to think he has been idle all this time. He wavers on his feet, and Grantaire steps closer, to catch him if he falls. Grantaire looks at him, and his face breaks into a sympathetic smile.

"Are you well?" he asks.

Enjolras nods, and then stops abruptly as the motion sets his head spinning. "Yes," he says in Dothraki. He rushes to explain. "I am so sorry. I did not mean—I should not have drunk so much of the mare's milk—"

Grantaire holds up a hand. "Peace," he says. "Can you ride today?"

Grantaire's tone is light, but his eyes are serious. Enjolras knows that riding is important—a horselord who cannot ride is no sort of lord at all—and he does not want to disappoint Grantaire.

"I can ride," he says, with more confidence than he feels.

"I will send a servant, to help you dress."

"No—thank you, no," Enjolras says, ducking his head. Grantaire nods and steps out again, and Enjolras dresses as quickly as he can, fumbling with the laces on the leather vest.

It is far from the most pleasant day of riding he has had, but neither is it the worst. At least the sun is not so bright today, covered by high, thin clouds. His headache grows dull and fades as the sun sinks into afternoon, and by evening the only pain he feels is shame.

When the tents are raised, Grantaire goes out to speak with Bahoro, and Zetta arrives at the tent. "How are you feeling?" she asks, and Enjolras lets himself slump with weariness.

"Far better than I ought to feel. Thank you—I presume it was you who made that draught for me?"

"Your khal was quite fretful when he came to me this morning. Before dawn, I would have you know."

He winces. "I am sorry."

"Oh, no. I was happy to earn my keep. Jolo and Bossuo may not have been so pleased, but they would not deny their khal anything, of course."

"I see." Enjolras had known that Zetta had grown fond of the two warriors, but he had not known they were so close as _that_. He tugs at the laces of his vest, frowning. "Zetta, I wanted to ask you something, before Grantaire returns."

She frowns at him. "What is it that your khal is not to hear?"

"Last night, when I was...ill," he says delicately, "Grantaire woke, and he helped me back into the tent, but he said something that made me wonder if I had angered him somehow."

"Angered him? I doubt that very much. What is it that he said?"

"It was something like 'by the stars and sun,' I think. It sounded like an oath."

Zetta pauses to consider it, and then her lips curl in a slow smile. " _Shekh ma shieraki anni_ , perhaps?"

"Yes. What does it mean?"

"It is no curse," she says. "It means _my sun and stars_. It is a love-name."

"A _love-name_?" Enjolras echoes. "But why would he—I acted shamefully, why would he say such a thing to me?"

"Perhaps because he cares for you, very much."

Enjolras ducks his head.

"Ah." Zetta reaches out to pinch his cheek lightly. "Is it the sun that burns your face, or are you grown fond of your khal?"

"I have always been fond of him," Enjolras murmurs. "I only did not understand at first."

"I see. Then why do you not go to him, as a man to his beloved?"

 _Beloved_. Enjolras buries his face in his hands. "I _tried_ , Zetta. Last night I wanted to lie with him, but I was afraid that I would lose my courage. I asked a servant to bring me a skin of mare's milk...and I fear I drank it all."

"Ah, then that is why. No doubt he wishes for your love-making to be a memorable thing, and not a night clouded with drink."

"Or perhaps he is ashamed of me and no longer wants me at all."

"If he did not desire you, he would not call you his sun and stars. Put such thoughts out of your mind."

Enjolras nods. "Then what am I to say to him tonight?"

"Perhaps 'Take me, my khal, I am yours'?"

" _Zetta_."

She smiles. "What do you wish to say to him? You know enough of the Dothraki tongue to tell him anything. But if you care for him, and I know that you do, you might call him _moon of my life_."

" _Moon of my life_ ," Enjolras repeats in careful Dothraki. "He would like that?"

Zetta nods. "I am sure of it."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Alcohol use/drunkenness
> 
> And a couple of notes, considering last week's GoT finale:
> 
>   1. This fic only covers the timeline of the first season/book.
>   2. Even if it continued, it sure as heck wouldn't end like _that_. Enjolras makes a pretty strong point about not murdering civilians in canon, and there's no universe I can imagine in which Enjolras would do what Dany did at the end.
>   3. If the "No archive warnings apply" tag wasn't a hint, things are about to go pretty far off the rails as far as GoT canon (and, for that matter, Les Mis canon) is concerned.
> 

> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading! I'll try and keep these updates on a weekly-ish basis.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see end notes for content warnings.

Enjolras does not gather the courage to call Grantaire _moon of my life_ , not that day or for many days thereafter. Each time he thinks that he might reach out, he remembers what happened on the night of the mare's milk, and his courage fails him.

In the dawn after the new moon, Bahoro pushes open the tent-flap to bring news.

"A khalasar is coming," he says. "One of our scouts saw their riders gathering beyond the rise to the north."

Enjolras sits up and lights the candle by their bedside. Grantaire is already reaching for his clothing, blankets thrown aside.

"How many?" Grantaire asks.

"Three thousand warriors."

In the dim light, Enjolras almost misses Grantaire's flinch. "Gather the riders. Leave a hundred to guard the camp. The rest ride with me."

Bahoro nods and leaves the tent. "Is that very many?" Enjolras asks. "Three thousand?"

"It is...more than we have faced, since I became khal."

"I see." Enjolras rises from the bed and crosses the tent to the chest that holds his clothing and his bow. There is armor, too, after a fashion—Dothraki armor, which consists mainly of thick leather trousers, and a heavy vest that might turn aside an arrow. Enjolras puts them on, too rushed to concern himself with modesty.

He has the bow in his hand when Grantaire catches sight of him. "No. You stay," he says. By now, his Common is nearly fluent; it is fear that clips his words.

Enjolras sets his jaw. " _No_."

"You could be hurt."

"So could you."

"I am the khal. My duty is to fight. Yours is—"

"Is what?" Enjolras challenges. "What is my _duty_ , Grantaire?"

His lips press into a tight, thin line. "Can you shoot from horseback?"

"Yes."

"Then you stay with the rearguard. No," he adds, cutting off Enjolras' protests before he can even voice them. "If you would fight, follow orders. Stay in the rear, and if the battle turns against us, retreat. If you are captured, claim your right to join the dosh khaleen, and you will not be harmed."

_If the battle turns against us_ —meaning if Grantaire is killed. The rest of it, he cannot acknowledge, because he will take no mercy offered by Grantaire's murderers. But he nods, ignoring the knot of fear that settles in his stomach. He needs to go out and saddle his mount. She is too light for a war-horse, but she is quick and steady, both of which will serve Enjolras well when he needs to shoot.

Grantaire catches Enjolras' arm as he turns. He opens his mouth to speak, and then pauses. "Fight well," he says at last.

"And you," Enjolras replies, " _moon of my life_."

Enjolras carries the memory of Grantaire's fierce, bright smile all through the morning, as the warriors mount up and prepare for battle. Enjolras does not know how many riders are in Grantaire's khalasar, or even if they are more or less than the enemy's three thousand. Grantaire and his bloodriders will lead the charge, and not all of them will return.

They ride out to a point not far from the camp, and as they crest a gentle rise, Enjolras sees the enemy arrayed in front of them. His breath catches at the sight, and a tremor seems to run through him. For all his brother's talk of making war against the Seven Kingdoms, Enjolras had never truly expected to be a part of the fighting. He tightens his grip on the reins and draws a steadying breath.

Grantaire calls a halt to the rearguard, with a meaningful glance back at Enjolras, and then he leads the rest of his riders forward. Enjolras cannot take his eyes off of him, straight-backed and steady atop his gray stallion.

The Dothraki do not fight the way that the Andals do. There are no standard-bearers, no drummers or sigils or trumpet-calls as in the great battles of Westeros. Enjolras does not know how he is meant to tell the enemy from their friends.

There is no signal at all. One moment there is stillness, and the next, the two khalasars are charging towards each other.  The air grows thick with the ring of steel, the shouts of men and the screams of horses. But the battle does not come close to the rearguard.

Enjolras grips his bow, seeking out Grantaire among the frenzy. His eyes are drawn to him, always where the fighting is thickest. He wields his arakh with surprising grace, and the sight of him on horseback would be worthy of any painting or tapestry. Yet there are so many ranged against him. If he should fall—

An enemy rider batters down one of Grantaire's warriors and advances on the rearguard. Without a moment's pause, Enjolras notches an arrow and looses it, taking the rider in the thigh. He falls from his mount and vanishes beneath the horses' churning hooves.

Enjolras' stomach rolls, but he does not let himself dwell on what he has done. He turns back to look for Grantaire again, and finds him still riding, arakh flashing in the sunlight. His pounding heart calms, but something still seems wrong.

Three thousand riders, Bahoro had said. But the force facing Grantaire's riders seems to be less than that, by a few hundred at least. Has the enemy kept some of their strength in reserve, or is there another reason for their absence? An edge of dread joins the tight coil of worry in Enjolras' stomach, and he rises up in the stirrups to survey the Dothraki Sea around them.

All looks quiet and calm beyond the place where the battle rages, but far off behind the rearguard is a great shadow racing towards them from the east, masked by the glare of the rising sun. The rest of the enemy khal's riders, no doubt, intending to catch them from behind.

He has seen this before, in the magister's books on strategy. It forces the defenders to divide their strength, a chaotic feat in the midst of battle, and in doing so, the defenders cut off their own path of retreat. If one side can take their enemy by surprise, they can sweep away half the rearguard before the main force understands what is happening, and with their backs to the new attackers, the defenders become easy prey.

But they have not taken Grantaire's khalasar by surprise—not entirely. The rearguard is made up of the riders least-suited to battle, the last line of defense. There are the youths still too young to braid their hair, the wounded, the old men and women whose braids are streaked with white. But they are warriors still.

Enjolras' Dothraki is far from elegant, but he can make himself understood. Whether he can make these men and women follow him into battle is another matter entirely. He nudges his mount into motion and turns to face the rearguard.

"Behind!" he calls out, pointing to the approaching enemy. "Turn and fight! Behind!" He rides down the line. At first, the rearguard only seems surprised that he knows any Dothraki at all. Then Jolo takes up the cry. He is one of Zetta's beloved, and his leg is too twisted for the fast riding required of the main force. But he is no less a warrior for that, and he raises his arakh high in the sunlight.

"Attack!" he cries. " _Attack_!"

And as one, the rearguard rides out to meet the oncoming enemy. But Enjolras is an archer; he has no blade for close combat. He pulls up a hundred yards before the two armies meet and fits an arrow to the string. He lets fly, watching the arrow arc over the heads of Grantaire's riders and fall among the enemy. He does not see where it strikes, already pulling another arrow from his quiver, but a sudden cry from the enemy suggests that it found its mark.

He looses arrow after arrow until the battle is fully joined, and he can no longer tell friend from foe amid the roiling dust. He does not dare turn his back to see how the main battle is faring. Holding off the ambush will help more than worrying about Grantaire.

Each time an enemy rider seems to break from the pack, Enjolras lets fly an arrow, and each time the rider tumbles to the dust. He chooses his shots carefully, taking aim only when there is no danger of hitting one of his own riders. Still, he is running short of arrows when the battle before him shifts.

At first he cannot say what caused it, only that something has changed. Then he realizes that the battle is drawing away from him—their enemy is _retreating_ , leaving their dead and their wounded behind.

The ambush has become a rout, and Enjolras finds himself joining in with the whoops and cheers of the other riders. But even in the triumph of the moment, he is already turning, seeking out Grantaire within the main force of the battle.

For a long, breathless moment, he cannot find him. Then the dust clears, and Enjolras sees him, locked in combat with a mountain of a man who can only be the enemy khal. Even as Enjolras watches, the other khal seems to realize that his ambush has failed. He draws his mount back a pace and raises his arakh high—

To cut through his braid at the base of his neck. He flings the braid at Grantaire's feet, and then he turns and rides away. His khalasar flees after him, much diminished, leaving their camp behind.

A few of Grantaire's bloodriders go to investigate the camp and bring back what plunder they can. The others return home, their mounts picking their way through trampled grasses strewn with bodies and blood.

As soon as Enjolras dismounts and hands the mare's reins to Gahro, he goes looking for Grantaire. He wants a bath, he wants to be ill, he wants to sleep for a day or more, but first he must see that Grantaire is safe.

" _Enjolras_!" he hears from behind him. Grantaire leaps down from his horse and catches Enjolras up in his arms, swinging him in a circle before setting him down. "They say you were the one who saw the ambush. Without you, we might have been pinned between the enemy's riders. The best horse among the spoils will be yours."

Enjolras frowns. "But I _have_ a horse."

"Your mount is not a war-horse. This horse shall be yours, for the next battle."

_The next battle_. Because there will be another, and another after that. Dothraki khals do not die of old age. The thought sets his heart racing again, and he draws back to look over Grantaire. "Are you hurt?"

Grantaire shakes his head, but Enjolras is not convinced. Indeed, most of the blood does not seem to belong to him, but there are a few cuts that should be cleaned and bandaged, and one along his ribs that ought to be sewn up.

"Someone bring me a healer for the khal," Enjolras orders, without thinking, and a servant takes off across the camp at speed.

Grantaire sighs. "Enjolras, I do not need—"

"Hush. You will let her clean your wounds, and do as she says."

He laughs. "The dragon has come out to play, I think. Very well, if it will calm your fears."

Enjolras swallows a retort. Yes, he _is_ frightened, now that the battle is over. Frightened of what might have happened—what might have gone unspoken between them, what might yet go undone.

When Gahro comes back with Zetta, Grantaire lets himself be led away without complaint. Enjolras leads his mare back to the grazing grounds and combs out her coat with shaking hands.

He killed men today. He cannot even be sure how many. They were men who would have killed him without a thought, and he cannot be sorry to have done it. But that does not stop him from seeing them in his mind's eye, falling to the trampled earth. It could as easily have been him, or Bahoro, or Grantaire who fell today, and the thought makes him dizzy.

He returns to their tent, hoping that Grantaire will be there already, but he is not. Instead, there is a servant waiting for him in their tent. "The khal wishes to know if there is anything you require," the man says.

Enjolras starts to shake his head, and then reconsiders. "I would like a bath," he says. "If you will."

"Of course."

The servants bring a tub of water and heat it with stones carried in from the fire. When they leave, Enjolras undresses and sinks into the water. He scrubs off the dust of the battle, imagining that he can wash away the guilt and unease along with it.

When he is finished, he pulls on his leggings again. His hair is still dripping down the back of his neck, so he forgoes a shirt. The tent is warm enough as it is.

Then Grantaire strides into the tent. A linen bandage is wrapped around his ribs, and he is carrying a carved wooden chest in his arms. He looks to be in a foul temper. He lays the chest down on the floor with a wince and glares at Enjolras.

"She washed the cuts with boiled wine. It _hurt_ , and it was a waste of wine."

"Don't be childish," Enjolras replies sharply. "Men died today, some at my own hand, and it will be for nothing if you die of a scratch."

The ferocity in Enjolras' voice seems to startle Grantaire. "You had never fought a battle before today," he says, as though it is a revelation.

"No."

"The first is always difficult, even for one raised to it."

Enjolras looks down, hoping that the light from the brazier will not show the tears that have gathered in his eyes. Somehow mockery would have been easier to bear than kindness. "I should regret it. A good man would feel remorse for killing. But I only regret that it _had to be done_. The men I killed today would have killed all of us—you, Bahoro, Zetta, even Gahro, who is too young to fight. I chose your lives, _our_ lives, over theirs, and I am not sorry to have done it."

The words pour out of him in clumsy Dothraki, with Common words substituted for the ones he does not yet know. Do the Dothraki even have a word for _remorse_? Perhaps Grantaire will only see this as a weakness, perhaps he is untroubled by the blood that was spilled today.

"I know," he says instead. "In every battle, one side must lose—it is known. I am only glad it was not us, today."

Enjolras turns to him. "As am I." The moment seems to draw out between them, like thread from a spindle, and if it goes on, Enjolras does not know what he might do. He drops his gaze and catches sight of the cedarwood chest at Grantaire's feet.

Grantaire pushes it towards him. "A gift for you, my sun and stars. Spoils from the battle."

"Spoils?" Enjolras shakes his head. "There must be someone else more deserving of this. I did so little..."

"You saw the ambush before any of the others, and you turned your men to face the danger. You saved many lives—this is small repayment for such a deed."

Curiosity overcomes Enjolras' reserve, and he kneels in front of the chest to lift the silver latches. He raises the lid, and his breath catches in his throat.

On a bed of silks lie three dragon eggs. They are scaled as though they were dragon-skin themselves, one black, one golden, and one crimson, each larger than Enjolras' two fists together. He reaches out to trace a fingertip over the scales.

The eggs are cold—he does not know why it should surprise him, but it does. They cannot be _true_ eggs, after all. Everyone knows that the last dragon perished three hundred years ago.

"They are a thousand years old, and the ages have turned them to stone," Grantaire says, kneeling beside him. "But I thought it fitting. Dragon eggs, for a dragon prince."

Enjolras smiles at him. "They are beautiful. Grantaire—I am pleased," he says in Dothraki, before slipping back into Common. "Thank you."

"Always _thank you_. You Andals are very strange."

"And what do you call this?" Enjolras counters, with a gesture towards the dragon eggs. "Is this not your way of thanking me?"

"Pah. Your Westerosi nonsense is not—"

Bahoro lifts the tent flap and steps inside. The smile slides from Grantaire's face, and he rises to his feet. "Are the mercy men finished?"

"They are."

"How many?"

"Eighty-six, and a hundred or more wounded."

Grantaire closes his eyes briefly, and then he nods. "We will build their pyre tonight and send the dead safely to the Night Lands."

Bahoro nods. "There are two hundred who wish to remain," he adds.

"Good. See that they are given tents to share—and guards, for the first weeks."

"Of course." Bahoro bows and leaves the tent once more. Grantaire is silent for a long moment, and Enjolras struggles to find a way to break the quiet.

"What did he mean?" Enjolras asks. "The ones who 'wish to remain'?"

Grantaire crosses the tent and pours himself a cup of wine. He turns to offer Enjolras the flagon, but he shakes his head—the memory of the mare's milk is still too near.

Grantaire sets the flagon aside. "When a battle is lost, there are those who fall behind. Often they are slaves, servants, children too young to fight. Those wounded in battle, but not gravely enough for the mercy men. Some khals ride them down, to show their power, but it seems to me a waste of life. So they are given a choice—they may go their way, or they may join the khalasar."

_"Join_ us?" Enjolras protests. "But an hour ago they tried to kill you! How can you trust them?"

"They may prove themselves. They are not permitted weapons, or a horse of their own, for a year and a day. If they prove of good faith, they are granted the return of their arakhs, and they may take oaths to serve the khalasar."

"Why?"

"Because I do not kill children," Grantaire says fiercely. "And some of my finest bloodriders were once of conquered khalasars. Eponine is one. She did try to kill me—twice, at least—because there was such great anger in her. Now she turns that fire upon our enemies, and I trust my life to her without fear."

It still seems a terrible risk to Enjolras, but he has grown up as a Targaryen, forever hunted by agents of the Usurper. Perhaps his perspective is skewed.

Grantaire has fallen silent again, looking down into his cup of wine. His expression is grim and sad. "Eighty-six," he says. "It might have been worse. If you had not turned aside their ambush, we might have lost eight hundred. We might have lost _all_ , and to a khal without mercy. Eighty-six is so small a number, yet..."

"You care for your people—there is no shame in that." Enjolras thinks again of the men he killed today, and he begins to wish he had accepted Grantaire's offer of wine. He lifts his head to look at Grantaire. "Is there anything I can do that would help?" he asks.

Grantaire only shakes his head. "Do not be troubled. This will pass." He tips back his cup of wine and sets it on a table, immediately forgotten.

Enjolras rises. If he cannot do anything to raise Grantaire's spirits, at least he can be of some help. Unbraiding Grantaire's hair has become a ritual between them, and Enjolras would dearly love to feel that something, at least, is as it should be. His body is still humming with the tension of battle, and he does not know how to calm it.

He reaches out, but the moment his fingertips brush Grantaire's braid, Grantaire turns around. "No," he says.

His hand falls to curl around Enjolras' arm, bare in the warm confines of their tent, and Enjolras shivers. He has heard stories about the aftermath of battle, of how some men seek out a partner to remind them that they still live.

Enjolras would not object to find that Grantaire was such a man. But instead of pulling him into his arms, Grantaire guides him to sit at the edge of the bed and takes his place beside him.

Enjolras frowns, not certain of what Grantaire means to do. Then he feels callused fingers sweep over his bare shoulders, gathering up the locks of his hair and gently combing out the tangles. He does not understand until Grantaire begins weaving the strands together, into a braid.

Enjolras' breath hitches, and he curls his hands into fists to stop them trembling. Only Dothraki warriors may wear a braid—it is known. But there must be some mistake, because he does not _feel_ like a warrior. He feels like a stumbling fool whose luck has been mistaken for skill. But Grantaire would not bestow such an honor unless he truly believed it was earned.

When he is finished, Grantaire takes a small brass bell from his own braid and tucks it into Enjolras' hair. He pushes Enjolras towards the silver-backed mirror that stands in a corner of the tent, no doubt looted from some other conquered khal.

He cannot believe how much his reflection has changed in the face of so small a thing. The braid is short, barely reaching the nape of his neck. It is nothing like Grantaire's, but it marks them as comrades, brothers-in-arms. For the first time since his brother sold him, perhaps for the first time in his life, Enjolras belongs to no one but himself.

He turns his back on the mirror and kisses Grantaire.

Grantaire's arms wrap around him. One hand rises to Enjolras' new braid, tipping his head just slightly to change the angle of the kiss, and— _oh_ , that is much better. Grantaire's tongue darts into Enjolras' mouth, something that should not be so shocking as it feels. When Grantaire laughs at his reaction, Enjolras can feel it rumbling in his own chest.

He takes a step back. Grantaire breaks the kiss, his eyes dark and hot and solemn. "Yes?" he asks.

Enjolras nods. " _Yes_." He sits on the edge of the bed, and Grantaire stands in front of him, their heights reversed for once. Grantaire braces one knee on the bed and bends to kiss Enjolras again.

Growing bolder, Enjolras leans backwards, pulling Grantaire down with him until he is lying flat, with Grantaire kneeling over him. He can scarcely believe that he once feared this.

Grantaire lets his weight settle atop Enjolras, and Enjolras can feel the length of Grantaire's cock pressed beside his own. His hips shift upwards, and Grantaire's breath leaves him in a hiss.

Seized by a sudden indecision, Enjolras lifts his head. "I—I have never..."

"I know." Grantaire pulls away, and Enjolras fears that Grantaire has taken his confession for a refusal, but then Grantaire presses a kiss to Enjolras' collarbone, his chest, and lower. His hands trail down Enjolras' sides, and Enjolras raises his hips so that Grantaire can strip the last of his clothing from him.

Enjolras shivers in the cool air of the tent. Grantaire's eyes flash with a smile, and he takes Enjolras' cock into his mouth.

Enjolras moans so loudly that he is sure half the khalasar can hear him. Grantaire's mouth is hot, his tongue a clever torment, and Enjolras has never imagined that anything could feel like this. The world narrows to their bed, to Grantaire's mouth on him and the heat coiling low in his belly.

When Grantaire pulls back, Enjolras nearly cries out. "Please," he gasps. "Please, I—"

Grantaire kisses him, slow and heady. "Be patient, my sun and stars," he says. He rises from the bed to strip off his own clothing, and Enjolras can only stare. Though Grantaire has never been concerned with modesty, Enjolras has always kept his eyes averted, out of respect or simple shyness. But now he is welcome to look his fill.

Grantaire is beautiful, his brown skin lit gold by the light of the brazier. Enjolras traces the lines of tattoos and scars, fingers trailing over Grantaire's chest above the linen bandages. Then he reaches lower and curls his hand around Grantaire's cock in a tentative stroke.

Grantaire's eyes fall closed. " _Enjolras_ ," he groans.

Startled, Enjolras pulls back, and Grantaire laughs at the look in his eyes.

"You did nothing wrong. You may even do it again, if you like."

So Enjolras does, watching how Grantaire's body tenses in reaction, how a firmer stroke draws a sharp breath from him.

After a moment, Grantaire closes one hand gently around Enjolras' wrist and pulls him away. "Not yet," he says. He picks up a delicate porcelain jar from the table beside the bed. When he lifts the lid, a sweet scent fills the air. He dips one finger into the oil and reaches down between Enjolras' parted legs.

His touch is strange, vaguely uncomfortable but not unwelcome. Enjolras moves his hips just slightly, and Grantaire's touch begins to build into pleasure like the slow kindling of a fire.

Grantaire smiles. "Good?"

"Oh, yes."

He adds another finger, slick with oil, and Enjolras' breath stutters in his throat. Grantaire keeps his free hand on Enjolras' hip, grounding him as he murmurs something in Dothraki. Soon enough, Enjolras finds himself lifting his hips, pressing back against Grantaire's fingers.

Then Grantaire pulls away entirely. Enjolras nearly gives voice to his disappointment, but when he pushes himself up on his arms he is rewarded with the sight of Grantaire stroking himself, his skin glistening with oil. His eyes are closed, his brow faintly furrowed with concentration—he cannot know what a sight he makes.

He opens his eyes and catches Enjolras watching him. He casts his eyes down, seeming almost shy. But then he settles himself between Enjolras' legs and looks up at him. One eyebrow lifts, as though asking permission, and Enjolras nods.

It takes time. Grantaire is impossibly patient with him, stilling himself whenever Enjolras needs a moment to grow accustomed. It is like nothing he has ever dared to imagine.

Finally, Grantaire is settled inside him. He rests his forehead against Enjolras', barely breathing. Enjolras' heart is a rapid pounding in his chest, his body wound tight with anticipation. He pushes back against Grantaire and lifts his head so that he can kiss him. "Go on."

Grantaire braces his hands on either side of Enjolras' shoulders, and slides back in a long, slow thrust. Enjolras catches his breath as Grantaire does it again, each movement rippling through Enjolras' body. The pace he sets is gentle and slow enough to drive Enjolras to the brink of madness.

"More," he whispers, not knowing if the words are Common or Dothraki or High Valyrian. "More, I can—I want you to—please just—"

Whatever the tongue, Grantaire understands. He begins to move faster, rolling his hips with each thrust. Enjolras clutches at the blankets, the pillows, Grantaire's hip—anything to anchor himself, to keep from shaking apart.

Grantaire's hands are rough, but his touch is careful when he wraps one hand around Enjolras' cock and begins to stroke. The rhythm matches his thrusts, a steady counterpoint to Enjolras' racing heart. The world narrows to this tent, this bed, the two of them locked together.

He never wants this to end, but before long he is helpless to stop himself, swept up in the sensation of Grantaire above him, around him, inside him. He spills into Grantaire's hand with a breathless cry.

Grantaire gives one final thrust and follows him. The sound he makes is quiet and choked-off nearly before it begins, but his eyes are wide and dark, full of something like wonder. His hands are shaking as he eases out of Enjolras and tumbles to the bed beside him.

Enjolras knows that in the city of Braavos, there are those who call the peak of lovemaking a kind of death. He thinks now that he understands what they mean—his limbs are leaden, his mind a tumult of vague thoughts and impressions. Everything seems awash with remembered pleasure, and he could drift in this haze forever.

Grantaire turns onto his side to look at Enjolras. He smiles and tucks a loose curl behind Enjolras' ear. No doubt his braid is a ruin now, the bell buried somewhere beneath the blankets, but that is a concern for later.

Grantaire kisses him again, sweet and sated. Enjolras curls his body against Grantaire's and closes his eyes.

They are somewhat late to the funeral pyre.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Violence (non-graphic), sex (consensual)
> 
> Posted in the wake of Barricade Day, because I needed something a little happier as a chaser. :) As always, you're welcome to come and say hi at [my tumblr](http://thelibrarina.tumblr.com)!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see end notes for content warnings.

Once, Enjolras had expected that everything would change when Grantaire claimed him. For better or worse, he did not know, but he thought surely everything would be different.

Instead, their lives remain much as they were before. Each night, they share the khal's bed, though now perhaps they sleep a little less when they do. They still ride together, and when there is fighting, Grantaire still tries to keep Enjolras to the rearguard, with little success.

The first bell in Enjolras' braid is joined by two more, and he wears them with pride.

This morning, the camp is restless, waiting. Another storm has passed through, and Grantaire is meeting with his bloodriders, to see if the earth is too wet for riding. The two of them had passed the long hours of the storm together in the tent, and Enjolras is grateful that the noise of the wind and thunder were enough to drown out the sounds that he made.

Alone in the tent, he lifts the lid of the cedarwood chest to examine the dragon eggs within. He likes to keep them close to him, though he knows it is an indulgence—perilously near folly. He knows the truth of his father's reign, despite his brother's insistence that no one mention such things in their hearing. One scarcely need glance at their history to know that the Targaryen line has always run thick with the threat of madness.

Enjolras traces a fingertip over the black shell. It is cold, but it is always cold. There is no reason that it should suddenly seem wrong, save that dragons are creatures of fire and blood, like he is.

They should be warm.

He eyes the shallow brazier across the tent, considering. He picks up the black egg and nestles it among the coals. Then he carries the other two eggs across the room and settles them on either side of the first.

_There_. He lets out a breath, and a prickling tension at the back of his neck eases. This is better, though not quite best. A roaring fire would be better still, a campfire or—

Did one of them move? No, _that_ would be madness. The eggs are stone, a thousand years old, and the dragons inside are stone, too. Perhaps the coals had shifted beneath the weight of the egg, giving it the illusion of life.

"Enjolras?"

He looks up to find Grantaire watching him from the doorway, with a faint, confused smile on his face.

"Are you making breakfast? There are easier eggs to cook."

Heat rises in Enjolras' face. "Oh—no. It was a passing fancy, that is all." He picks up the crimson egg to return it to its chest.

" _Enjolras_!" Grantaire darts forward and snatches the egg away from him, hissing with pain as it scorches his skin. He drops it back on the brazier, and in a heartbeat he is back at Enjolras' side. "Your hands—fetch Zetta!" he shouts to the guards outside the tent. He catches Enjolras' hands in his own and carefully turns them over to reveal the pale unmarked skin of Enjolras' palms.

"How—?" Grantaire's hands are red, the palms blistered in a reflection of the dragonscale pattern of the egg.

"Oh. _Oh_ ," Enjolras says, as though rising from a trance. "You're hurt."

"Only startled. But you..." Grantaire's thumb brushes over Enjolras' palm. "How are you unburnt?"

Enjolras is saved from having to explain himself when Zetta bursts into the tent. He steps back from Grantaire and pushes him towards the healer. "Zetta, please see to the khal's hands. There was—an accident," he says.

She says nothing, only casts a brief glance between them before turning to examine Grantaire's hands. Enjolras folds his arms across his chest, suddenly cold, as Zetta selects a salve from her pack and covers the burns. Grantaire winces but doesn't draw away. Then she wraps his hands in linen.

"Those are a maester's skills," Enjolras says, watching the careful way she layers the bandages.

Zetta looks up, shaking back the dark twisted locks of her hair. "So they are. Did you think I wore my hair this way for vanity alone?"

Woven within the plaits of her hair are four metal loops—silver, iron, bronze, and gold. Enjolras has noticed them before, but he has never had cause to think of them as more than tokens.

"You have the makings of a maester's chain. But how can that be?"

She ties off the last bandage and smiles at him. "I forged four links of my chain in Oldtown before a novice burst into my chambers one morning and found that Acolyte Zettel was not a young man growing ever more fat, but a young woman growing ever more buxom, and struggling to hide her breasts beneath a multitude of quilted tunics. So I fled across the Narrow Sea, seeking to put to use what I had learned, and now here I am. They should not scar," she adds, turning to Grantaire. "But you would do well to stop juggling hot coals."

He rolls his eyes. "Yes. You may go now, Zetta."

"Thank you," Enjolras adds.

"Send for me each evening to change the bandages," she says.

"You do not _order_ a khal," Grantaire argues, but without offense.

"No. But now that Enjolras has heard me say it, _he_ will make you obey." She smiles sweetly and leaves the tent.

"I am so sorry," Enjolras bursts out, as soon as they are alone. "I do not know what came over me, I—"

Grantaire lifts one bandaged hand to Enjolras' cheek, the linen rough against his skin. "This was not your fault. It was an accident, as you told Zetta. But why did you reach into the brazier?"

"I don't know," Enjolras says, shamefaced. "I thought—I don't know what I thought. It just seemed that the eggs should be warm, and then when you saw me, I felt so foolish, and I wanted to hide what I had done..."

"How is it that you could pick it up?"

Enjolras shakes his head. "It is said that fire cannot kill a dragon. Do you suppose—?" He reaches towards the brazier again, testing.

Grantaire catches his hand to stop him and kisses his palm. "I suppose nothing about you, because you will always surprise me."

"Grantaire, I am so sorry."

He presses his fingertips to Enjolras' lips. "Stop," he says, but his voice is soft. "I would suffer a thousand terrible fates before I would see you hurt."

"And do you think I would do less?" Enjolras demands.

Grantaire looks at him in surprise. "Would you? This life was not of your choosing, I know."

"No," Enjolras admits. "It was not my choosing, but I have never been so happy as I am here. I would walk through all of the seven hells if that was what it took to save you."

"And I would fight a _hrakkar_ with nothing but my own hands, only to bring you its skin to keep you warm."

Enjolras laughs. "I am warm enough—I need no lion skin."

"Very well." Grantaire smiles and kisses him lightly on the mouth. "Come," he says, taking Enjolras' hand. "The mud is not so deep. We ride south and east, to Mantarys."

 

* * *

 

Mantarys is a strange city, on the northern shore of the Sea of Sighs. Sundered from its neighbors by the Doom of Valyria, it has grown wild in its isolation. Even their Valyrian is strange to Enjolras' ear, with a lilting rhythm that sounds almost like a song.

As they are preparing to go into the city, Enjolras shoulders his bow and quiver. Only once he turns does he realize that Grantaire is watching him.

"Are we going to battle?" Grantaire asks. "Why do you carry your bow?"

"Because of the poisoner at Vaes Khadokh. I had thought, when I came here, I would be free of the danger that has always followed my family, but I know now that I must be ready to defend myself and—my people."

Grantaire shakes his head. "No."

Enjolras blinks. He has used the bow in battle more than once. Why would Grantaire object to it now? "I don't understand," he says in Dothraki. It still seems to be the phrase he uses most.

"Your bow, it is not good for this purpose. If there is danger, you will waste too long in stringing it." Grantaire unbuckles his own belt and slides a sheathed dagger from it. "Take this to Bossuo when we return—he is of all my _ko_ s best at knife-fighting. He will teach you to protect yourself with it."

Enjolras nods. He puts away the bow and fixes the sheath to his own belt. Though he does not yet know how to make use of it, having it at hand is a comfort.

They set off to the market together. Grantaire will not suffer him to visit the city alone—his own reaction to the memory of the poisoner. Enjolras wants to resent Grantaire's concern, but the feeling of being truly _cared for_ , of being seen as something more than a burden or a possession, is so new that he finds Grantaire's attitude faintly charming.

And it is just as well—very few of Grantaire's bloodriders speak Valyrian, so Enjolras can be of use to them. They spend the morning trading, and by noon Enjolras' throat is dry from haggling with the merchants. Still, he is more than content to wander the market with Grantaire at his side.

A small crowd catches his eye, and he pauses to see what has captured their attention.

It is a puppet show of sorts. Marionettes dance across a makeshift stage, while a man narrates in High Valyrian. Grantaire gives the spectacle no more than a passing glance, but Enjolras finds himself drawn to the stage.

He knows suddenly, with a swooping dizziness, how the story ends. Even before the magnificent painted dragon erupts from behind the stage, he knows. It is his own story, the story of the Targaryens.

Grantaire must have noticed that Enjolras is no longer walking with him, because he turns and comes back to Enjolras' side. He smiles when he sees what Enjolras is watching. "Have you never seen a show like this before?"

"Not quite like this," Enjolras replies, without tearing his eyes away from the spectacle. "This one is about my family."

"Your _family_?" Grantaire echoes. On the stage, a bent-backed man with a crown atop his silver-gray hair waves a hand and causes another marionette to burst into green paper flames. Then a golden warrior strikes him down and sets a black-haired glutton on the throne in his place, and the story is over.

Enjolras purses his lips. It is none of it untrue, in the particulars, but it is a sad reminder of how low his family's fortunes have fallen. Had Montparnasse been present to see such a spectacle, he would send a man to retrieve the heads of the whole mummers' troupe. He could never abide a harsh truth.

The audience is breaking up, and Enjolras walks away, irrationally afraid that someone will see in him a likeness to the wooden king in the play. Grantaire walks beside him in silence for a moment.

"Why do they call it the Iron Throne?" he asks at last.

"Because it is made all of swords, beaten into shape."

He eyes Enjolras, skeptical, as though he thinks perhaps he has misunderstood. "Then it is—a sharp chair?"

Enjolras bursts into laughter. "Yes, I like the sound of that. Not the Iron Throne, but the Sharp Chair. And it _is_ sharp. Sharp enough to cut the unwary...or the unworthy. They say my father was forever cutting himself on it when he grew old."

He waits, but Grantaire doesn't ask the question—was he unwary, or unworthy? Instead he says nothing, and Enjolras is grateful. Yet he wants Grantaire to understand, so he rushes on.

"He began as a good king, I think, but as the years went on he fell prey to the madness that runs in the Targaryen bloodline. It is a monstrous deed, of course, to kill a king, but...I cannot fault the Kingslayer for what he did. He may well have saved the kingdom; at the least, he saved many lives." He frowns. "But my brother Rhaegar's death, and what was done to his wife and their children—for _that_ I can never forgive the Usurper, or his followers."

"Nor should you," Grantaire says. "You never knew this brother, did you?"

Enjolras shakes his head. "He died not long before I was born. Montparnasse remembers him, of course. I think he envied Rhaegar. And Magister LaMarque knew him, when he lived in Westeros. He said once that I reminded him of Rhaegar. I think it was the greatest compliment he ever paid me."

Grantaire stops him with a hand on his arm, and Enjolras turns to look at him. "He meant it kindly, I am sure. But you are not your brothers," he says. "Nor are you your father."

Enjolras casts his eyes down. "Then what am I?"

"You are yourself."

"That is not enough."

"A shame, then, for that is all anyone can be in his life. And you may be as brave as Rhaegar and as wise as the dosh khaleen, but your life is your own."

Enjolras smiles and takes his hand. "Thank you."

They walk through the marketplace hand in hand, stopping here and there to admire the wares on offer. Grantaire's eyes light up when he passes a stall selling honeyed dormice, and he will not rest until Enjolras has tried one. He is leery at first, but he discovers that they are delicious—though the sweet, crisped skin is dipped in a sauce so fiery that it makes Enjolras' face burn.

Grantaire has suggested that they make their way back to the camp, and Enjolras is on the point of agreeing when he hears it: a shout from across the square, bright and loud like any other merchant.

"Bed-slaves! Young and untried! Train them to your tastes, and you will never be displeased."

Enjolras frowns and looks up, searching for the source of the words. There is a man standing at one side of the square, surrounded by perhaps a dozen children in chains.

_Children_.

He has no memory of crossing the square. In one moment, he is at the eastern edge of the courtyard, and the next he is standing in the harsh sunlight in front of the slaver.

The slaver smiles at him. "Ah. Looking for someone to serve you while you are away from your home?" he asks, and his voice is sickly-sweet. "These can bear your cups and warm your bed as well."

"How much for all of them?" Enjolras asks in the Common Tongue. Behind him, Grantaire has caught up, and he starts to speak.

"Enjolras, wait—"

" _How much_?" he repeats sharply.

The slaver bows his head. "Twelve gold dragons, greatness."

"For _ten children_?"

The slaver mistakes his shock for haggling, and he gives Enjolras a terrible smile. "You are a shrewd judge of flesh, I see. Ten dragons for you, greatness."

Appalled, Enjolras takes the price from his purse and hands it to the slaver. "Now remove their chains."

"Greatness?"

"Remove their chains," Enjolras repeats, louder this time. The slaver is clearly confused, but he does as Enjolras tells him, unshackling the children. They, too, are suspicious, perhaps fearing a trick, because they make no move to run.

Enjolras wants to grant them their freedom immediately—to own a slave, even for a moment, makes his stomach churn—but it would create a panic in the market, and the children could be hurt in the tumult. "Come with me," he says instead, matching the words to a gesture, and he leads them out of the market and through the streets of the city.

He is aware that Grantaire has followed him, is keeping pace with him as he winds through the city, but he is shaking with rage and horror, and if he speaks he does not know whether he will scream or weep.

After a while, Grantaire ventures a word. "Enjolras?"                                

"Not now. When they are safe, and fed, and when they understand that they are free, _then_ we will talk."

Grantaire falls back after that, keeping to the rearguard to make sure that none of the children are snatched up by other slavers. When they reach the khalasar, Enjolras calls for food and water and brings the children into the dim warmth of the cook-tent.

It is only then that he realizes he might be unable to make the children understand him. Zetta is away at the market still, and there is no knowing when she might return. He tries the Common Tongue and Dothraki to no avail, but one child looks up in recognition when he begins to speak Valyrian.

Enjolras seizes on that sign and does his best to tell them all that they are free. There is as much pantomime as speech, but their wide eyes suggest that perhaps they are beginning to understand. He sends Gahro after a tent that they can raise for the children to sleep in, and he asks Eponine if she knows anyone who might be willing to look after them as the khalasar travels, and teach them Dothraki.

For the first time, he sees Eponine smile. "I raised Gahro myself," she says. "Zetta will help me speak with them, and Bahoro is the eldest of seven brothers. We will look after your ducklings for you."

Enjolras thanks her. Before he retires to his tent, he makes certain that he knows all of the children's names, and when he leaves them they are feasting on grapes and pomegranates under Eponine's solemn eye.

He has been avoiding Grantaire—Enjolras has the honesty to admit that, at least. He does not want to have to explain himself, and moreover, he does not want Grantaire to be the sort of person who mocks or misunderstands Enjolras' distaste for slavery.

Slaves are not uncommon among the Dothraki—it is known. He has seen slaves for sale at every market and every city they have passed. Grantaire had _bought_ him from his brother, after all, and though he had never made use of him as a slave, it still shows that the Dothraki have few qualms about such things. If Grantaire is not appalled by the thought of what might have happened to these children, Enjolras will never love him quite as well as he does now, not knowing.

So he takes his time. He wanders the camp, pays a visit to his mare and offers her a treat. He finds Bossuo and learns a little about fighting with a dagger—anything to put off seeing Grantaire for another few moments.

It is late indeed when he reaches the tent, and he is exhausted, tired and aching as though his whole body has been battered with stones. He half-hopes that Grantaire will be asleep already, and they may put aside their argument for another day.

But the brazier is lit, and the oil lamps, and Grantaire is sitting at the low table they use for their meals. There is a cold supper of dates and fruits and buttered bread—Grantaire might have been waiting for ten minutes, or two hours. But he pours Enjolras a cup of wine and passes it to him, and they eat their meal in silence and peace.

When they have finished, Grantaire sets down his cup. "Will you free every slave in the market, then, ten at a time?"

Enjolras frowns. "They were _children_ , Grantaire. Children being sold as bed-slaves. What else would you have had me do?"

"Oh, I am not quarreling with your choices. I only do not know what you mean to do next."

"I hardly know, myself. I only know that if I had walked by, I would have hated myself from this day onward. Ten gold dragons, Grantaire, for ten lives. You paid more than that for your horses this morning. And how can a horse be worth more than a child's life?"

"I never said it was right—of course it is not. And I am glad that you saved these ten from a terrible life. They will be protected here, and cared for, and one day if they wish to be maesters or craftsmen instead of warriors, we will see that they are given their chance. But you cannot solve all the world's ills, Enjolras. Not like this."

"And why not?" he demands.

Grantaire sighs. "Very well. You freed ten slaves today. And tomorrow, if you return to the market? There will be ten more. If you sold one of your dragon's eggs, you could buy every slave in the city—and tomorrow, _there would be more_. Sell it all—sell every horse and tent and bit of spoils in the khalasar, I will not protest. But it will not be enough."

"Then we should fight. If we cannot free them with gold, why not steel?" he asks, knowing already what Grantaire's response will be.

"The slavers have whole armies to serve them, slaves and mercenaries alike. My warriors are strong, and we might win many battles against them—but each battle has a cost, as you have seen. And soon there would be too few of us even to defend ourselves, so how could we protect anyone else? If you had a dragon, instead of your dragon's eggs, I do not think any man might stand against you. But your dragons are stone, and we are only mortal. There are thousands upon thousands of slaves in this world, Enjolras. You cannot save every one of them."

"And so it is better never to try at all?" he snaps. "I should walk past them as you do, cold and uncaring?"

Grantaire's eyes widen as though Enjolras has struck him. "You should not say such things, Enjolras. You do not know how deeply I care."

"Yet you do nothing. We have a word for such men in Westeros—we call them _cowards_." The tent is too close and too warm; Enjolras rises from the table.

"Where are you going?"

"To clear my head," he replies, and he strides out of the tent without looking back.

He goes back to the pasture and saddles his horse. The hostlers are nowhere to be seen, so there is no one to tell him what folly it is, to go out riding in the dark. There is enough moonlight and starlight to see by, and he can find his way back by the light and smoke of the cookfires.

He springs up into the saddle, and he rides.

He presses the mare into a canter, and then a gallop. He leans low over her neck and tries to let their rushing speed drive everything else from his mind. His skin is hot and prickling, and the night air feels good on his flushed face. He pretends that the tears streaming from his eyes are the fault of the cold wind and nothing more.

He is furious with Grantaire, yes, but there is fear at the heart of his anger. Fear that Grantaire is right, that nothing can stop the great slave cities that breed and sell people like cattle. He would pull the walls down brick by brick if he could, even knowing it would cost him his life.

Enjolras' anger falters. His own life he is more than willing to sacrifice, if the cause is just. But his would not be the only life lost in such an undertaking. It would take ten thousand warriors to breach the gates of Astapor or Meereen, and then they would have to fight for every inch of ground in the city itself. He closes his eyes and sees them all fall before him, blood running between the cobblestones—Bahoro, Eponine, little Gahro. And Grantaire...Grantaire would never allow harm to come to Enjolras, not while he lived. Enjolras is willing to die for an ideal, but Grantaire would die for _him_ , a prospect altogether more frightening.

He will never let it come to this.

Grantaire is right. They cannot defeat the slave cities. But he is wrong, too—there is merit in saving what few they can. Enjolras saved the children because he could not have done otherwise and still lived with himself. He cannot—will not—promise that it might not happen again one day.

He slows his mount to a walk, knowing that they still must make their way back. Tomorrow he will give the mare a day's rest and ride another horse, or perhaps he will sit with the children in their wagon and teach them a little of the Common Tongue. He looks back over his shoulder to see how far he has come and finds only a faint light on the horizon where the khalasar's fires glimmer.

He looks up. The stars wheel and swoop above him, and he curls his fingers into the horse's silver mane to steady himself. He will walk back to the khalasar and lead the horse—this headlong rush was a mistake, and it is a lucky thing that she did not fall and throw him.

He is impossibly tired. His limbs feel leaden and slow, but he climbs down from the mare's back, nonetheless. The night air, which felt so blessedly cool when he began, now sets him to shivering. He takes the mare's halter in hand and leads her back towards the khalasar. His steps are slow and staggering, as though he is walking in deep mud or quicksand.

His heart is a panicked flutter in his chest. Something is wrong—he has not felt so tired since his first days riding with the khalasar. He puts one foot in front of the other, again and again, but when he looks up the camp has grown no closer.

He will never make it back this way. He stops and loops the horse's reins over the horn of her saddle, but when he tries to climb onto her back, he discovers that he does not have the strength. The effort sends him reeling, stumbling backwards, and he trips over a tuft of grasses and falls to the ground.

Once there, it is easier not to rise. He should, he thinks—the grass is wet with dew that is already soaking into his clothes—but he cannot bring himself to be troubled by it. He will rest here, in the grass. Just for a moment, just until he recovers his strength.

Enjolras closes his eyes.

 

* * *

 

He wakes to heat and flickering firelight. He feels as though his whole body has been set afire, like he is Aerion Brightflame, burning from within. The blankets are tangled around him as though he has been thrashing in his sleep, and he struggles to push them aside with weak and shaking limbs.

Strong brown hands tuck the blankets around him anyway. Enjolras tries to voice his displeasure, but only a harsh rasping sound emerges.

Grantaire cradles his head in one hand and lifts a cup to his lips. "Be easy, my sun and stars. You are ill, you must rest."

Enjolras drinks from the cup, water so cold that it feels like a new kind of fire. Grantaire takes the cup away before it is half-empty and settles him back on the pillows. He was dreaming, he thinks. Strange, hazy dreams about dragons, and warriors, and—"The children?" he asks. "Are they—?"

"They are well. They have taken Gahro as their captain, which will surely be our ruin."

Enjolras tries to smile and feels his dry lips crack. "I am sorry. Before I left—I said—"

Grantaire shakes his head. "Don't speak of it. It's forgotten."

"No. It was cruel."

"It was not a lie."

He blinks. "You are not a coward," he says slowly.

Grantaire's smile is a twisted, sad thing. "Yes, I am," he replies. He brushes a lock of Enjolras' hair from his forehead, and his fingertips feel wonderfully cool. "Sleep."

Enjolras closes his eyes and then opens them again, pushing past his exhaustion. "Am I dying?"

"No," Grantaire replies, so fiercely that he seems to be trying to will his words into truth.

"If I...you will look after the children?"

"Of course I will look after them. But you will not die."

Enjolras cannot keep his eyes open. "How can you know that?" he whispers.

Grantaire takes Enjolras' hand in his own and presses it to his lips. "Fire cannot kill a dragon," he says. "It is known."

 

When he wakes again, he is nestled in the bedclothes, curled on his side. The three dragon's eggs lie warm in the curve of his body. He lifts one finger to trace the patterned shells, wondering how they came to be there.

Grantaire is still sitting beside him. He is bent forward, his head resting on the edge of the bed and pillowed on his folded arms. His hair is loose and tangled around him, and even in sleep his face is pinched with worry. Enjolras wonders how long it has been since Grantaire left his bedside.

His limbs feel like they are made of water, but he raises one hand and skims the sharp line of Grantaire's cheekbone with a fingertip. His eyelids flutter, then open.

When he catches sight of Enjolras watching him, his face breaks into a beatific smile. "How do you feel?" he asks.

"Well enough," Enjolras replies, and it is not precisely a lie.

"Are you thirsty?"

He nods, and Grantaire presents him with a cup. He would have held it to Enjolras' lips, but Enjolras stubbornly waits for him to press the cup into Enjolras' own hands, though he is trembling still with exhaustion. He spills nearly half the cup, but he does so on his terms.

Grantaire takes the cup from him when it is empty. Enjolras taps the shell of the golden egg lightly. "Why are the eggs here?" he asks.

Grantaire shrugs. "You wanted them. You kept asking me where they were, could you see them, could you hold them. So finally I put them down beside you, and...it seemed to calm you. Your fever broke late that night, and you have been sleeping ever since."

"How long was I ill?"

"Four days," Grantaire says, and Enjolras can see every hour of those days etched on his face.

Four days since his argument with Grantaire, since he had saddled his mare and ridden out into the darkness like a fool. The last thing he remembers before waking here is lying down in the tall grasses, looking up at the bright, dancing stars, and then closing his eyes.

"How did you find me?" he asks.

"I sent out every one of my riders at dawn, when you had not returned. They found your mare first, and then you, asleep in the grasses. You were soaked through, and you would not wake. When they carried you back to me...I thought you were dead."

"I am sorry. I never wanted to frighten you. I tried to ride home, but I was too weak to climb into the saddle."

"Such fevers are common, among Dothraki children. They come on swiftly, but the young recover with ease. It is harder, for one who is grown. I have known strong warriors who died from such things."

Grantaire's lip is raw where he must have bitten it, worrying at the spot while he fretted over Enjolras. Enjolras reaches forward to cover Grantaire's hand with his own, and Grantaire twines their fingers together.

"I will have a servant bring you something to eat—a broth, perhaps. You have been a long while without food."

So he has. His stomach, now that he considers it, is hollow and aching. "Four days? You must all be so restless. Will we ride today?"

Grantaire laughs. " _You_ will not ride for half a moon's turn. I will put you in the cart with the children and you may endure their endless pestering until you are well again."

"But to ride in a cart like a _child_ —"

"Any of my warriors wounded in battle would do the same. Perhaps tomorrow we will ride again. Today, you must rest."

"If you insist," Enjolras says, and Grantaire smiles.

"Only a moment awake, and already you argue."

"I am sorry—"

"No. You are beginning to be yourself again, and I am pleased." He presses a kiss to Enjolras' cheek. "Sleep. I will bring you something to eat."

"I slept for _days_ , Grantaire."

"And you will sleep for a week, if Zetta tells me you should. We owe your life to her maester's skills."

Enjolras subsides. "Please thank her for me."

"Thank her yourself. She will want to see you, I am sure." Grantaire slips out of the tent.

Despite his protests, Enjolras dozes off only a few moments later, his arm still draped protectively around the eggs. When he wakes, Grantaire is waiting with a bowl of broth. Enjolras reaches for it eagerly, disappointed to find that the bowl feels almost too heavy to hold. But he refuses to be spoon-fed like an infant, so he cradles the bowl in trembling arms and drinks down every drop.

"Thank you," he says, when the bowl is empty.

"You may not wish to say that yet. Zetta told me to give you this, when you had eaten." He lifts a pewter cup from the table, and Enjolras eyes it warily.

"Will it put me to sleep?"

"Very likely."

" _Grantaire_."

"If Zetta says you should sleep, then you must."

Enjolras purses his lips. "Very well. But will you join me?"         

Grantaire frowns. "Are you certain you wish that? I would not want you to feel too warm."

"You have scarcely slept in days, and you need to rest. Unless it might make you ill, too."

"No—I had this fever when I was a child, as most Dothraki do. Perhaps...for a while, I will rest with you. So I can be close, if you need me."

Enjolras steels himself and swallows the draught that Zetta made for him. The herbs make the wine bitter, and he shudders.

Grantaire bends close and kisses him. When he is finished, Enjolras gives him a look of wide-eyed confusion. "Please do not take this for a complaint, but...why did you do that?"

"When I was a child, my mother said that sweet should follow bitter. She let me suck on honeycomb after the healer made me drink something foul. And as I had no honeycomb to give you..."

Enjolras feels a flush rise to his face like a memory of fever. "It was sweet indeed," he says.

Grantaire undresses and lies down beside Enjolras. The brazier is burning low, and he snuffs the candle by their bedside, leaving the tent half-dark.

"You've never spoken of your mother before," Enjolras says softly. "What was she like?"

"Not was—is. She still lives among the dosh khaleen in Vaes Dothrak, between the Mother of Mountains and the Womb of the World."

Enjolras blinks slowly. He has never thought that Grantaire might have family yet living. After all, a man only rises to become khal after his father dies. Still, he feels guilty for never having thought to ask. "Tell me about her," he asks around a yawn.

"She is very small and light, like a bird, but she is as fierce as the she-lions who prowl the Dothraki Sea. Still, she never lost her kindness, though she had much cause to do so."

"What do you mean?"

Grantaire sighs, and his fingertips slide down Enjolras' arm to curl around his hand. "When we fought, you said I did not care about the fate of slaves, and I promised you that was not so. My mother was a slave, taken as spoils by my father many years ago. He favored her, and when she grew heavy with child, he took her as a wife, that the child might be khalakka—a prince. Have you never wondered why I am not named like the other Dothraki?"

"It did not seem polite to ask."

"My father named me Orro when I was born. But my mother called me Grantaire, which was her father's name. He traded with a caravan, she told me, and he died when my father's khalasar attacked. I was Orro for nineteen years of my life. When I became khal, I honored her by taking the name that she gave me." He leans over to kiss Enjolras' temple. "And that is why I keep no slaves. Because I know what my mother suffered, and I will not cause any to suffer as she did."

"But you bought me," Enjolras says. He tucks himself against Grantaire's side to take the sting from his words.

"Not as a slave. The gold, it was—how is it said? A bride price."

"A _dowry_?" Enjolras asks, struggling through the encroaching fog of sleep.

"Just so."

"Grantaire...I am sorry," he says. "For what I said, and for frightening you."

He brushes a lock of hair back from Enjolras' forehead. "All is well now. Sleep."

And Enjolras does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: The plot of this chapter involves children being rescued from sex slavery.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see end notes for content warnings.

Grantaire is as good as his word. He sends Enjolras to ride in a covered cart with the children, to suffer having his hair unbraided and rebraided in a dozen different styles by twenty curious hands. They chatter at him in languages he does not know, but he is content to see how they smile and laugh with each other. In truth, he still tires easily, and when the children yawn and curl up to sleep on the piled rugs in the cart, Enjolras finds himself drifting off as well.

The next days play out much the same, though Enjolras feels stronger each morning. Grantaire still refuses to let him ride, and Zetta adds her weight to the khal's judgement.

"Be patient," she tells him. "I will not have you exhaust yourself and fall ill again. Think of how he would fret."

Enjolras purses his lips. "You are coddling me—both of you."

Her expression turns solemn. "You do not know how ill you were, Enjolras. Another day or two of fever, and your body would not have borne the strain. Your khal was wild with fear that you would die, and I could not promise him otherwise. Ease his worries. Ride in the cart a few days more, and the world will right itself soon enough."

Enjolras subsides with somewhat better grace, confining himself to the cart while the sun rises far to their right each morning.

After a week has passed, Enjolras voices his question to Grantaire at their evening meal. "Why have we turned north?"

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. "You noticed?"

"Of course I noticed. I do know which direction the sun sets."

"We are going to Vaes Dothrak."

"The Dothraki city? Why?"

"Because you have never seen it. And because I would make you known to the dosh khaleen. After all, one day you may join them."

Enjolras jerks as if stung. The dosh khaleen are the widows of khals. "I will not—"

"Will not what? Will not be welcome? They would not turn you away. We are _kemaki_. You will go to them one day."

Enjolras shakes his head. "I would be ashamed to live, if you died in battle."

"No. _My_ shame would be to allow you to die for me."

"I—" Enjolras subsides. "I do not want to fight with you."

Grantaire's mouth quirks in a smile. "Yes, you do," he says. "But you should still be known to the dosh khaleen. You will like them, never fear."

"But will they like me?" Enjolras replies, frowning. Grantaire's _mother_ is among these women; if she does not care for him, what will Grantaire think?

Grantaire cups Enjolras' face in one hand and tips his chin up. "How could they dislike you? How could anyone?" He leans in to kiss Enjolras gently, and for the first time since he fell ill, Enjolras feels his body stir in response. He presses himself into the kiss, nudging Grantaire back towards the bed.

Grantaire smiles against his lips. "You are feeling better?" He takes hold of Enjolras' hips and settles him astride Grantaire's own lap.

"I am. Shall I prove it to you?"

"Hm. You may," Grantaire says graciously.

Enjolras grins down at him. "I thought you said I wasn't to be riding," he says innocently. "Not for a fortnight at least, you said." He rocks his hips against Grantaire's, wringing a groan from him.

"I may have been—hasty—in my judgment," Grantaire gasps.

Enjolras laughs and climbs off the bed long enough to pick up the jar of oil.

They have used this position before, but each time Enjolras sinks down onto Grantaire's cock, he is awed once more by the response it wrings from Grantaire. The rapid rise and fall of his chest, the wild look in his eyes, the way his hands rise to Enjolras' waist to clutch at him, to urge him to move. Enjolras does as he is bid, rising up and sliding down again.

His muscles burn with the strain, trembling, but he steadies himself with one hand on Grantaire's shoulder. The other strays to his own cock—he has found that Grantaire likes to watch him—and Grantaire's eyes widen. His hips jolt upward, threatening Enjolras' balance.

"Be still," Enjolras chides breathlessly. Grantaire hisses out a frustrated curse, but he drops his head back to the pillows obediently. Enjolras thrills to the thought that Grantaire might follow a command from him, and it draws him nearer to the edge. He slows his hand, wanting to draw out the moment, to wait for Grantaire.

Then Grantaire covers Enjolras' hand with his own, and in a few strokes it is over. He cries out as he comes, tipping forward, and he feels Grantaire's groan of satisfaction rumbling through his chest.

They fall asleep curled together in the center of the bed, and Enjolras wonders if there is anyone in this world, from the Free Cities to the Seven Kingdoms, who is as happy as he is.

 

He wakes before dawn to Zetta and Grantaire holding a quiet conversation across the tent. Enjolras lies still and finds that he can hear most of what they say.

"You protect him too much," Zetta says fondly.

"I fear for him."

"And I tell you, you do not need to. Let him ride—you may trust he will not fall."

Enjolras closes his eyes before he is caught eavesdropping, but when he steps out of the tent in the morning, Grantaire is waiting for him with the reins of Enjolras' horse clasped in his hand.

Enjolras kisses him and climbs into the saddle, and they ride.

From horseback, it is easy to see that the terrain they travel has changed. There are hills now, rising to either side of them, and the haze in the north has cleared into a distant mountain range. They are riding towards the largest mountain, where, Grantaire has said, the city spreads out at its base.

"How large is Vaes Dothrak?" Enjolras asks Grantaire as they ride.

"It is said that if every khalasar were called home, the city could hold them all, with room to spare. It was made to be so. The Mother of Mountains watches over the city and makes it a sacred place for the dosh khaleen to give guidance and prophecy."

Enjolras begins to suspect that Vaes Dothrak is as large as Pentos—larger, even, though its lack of walls makes its true size difficult to judge. By the next morning, he can see the great archway that marks the entrance to the city, but it is another day and a half before he can measure the scope of it.

The open gates of Vaes Dothrak are guarded by two rearing stallions, fashioned out of bronze. Their hooves lift high overhead and nearly meet, perhaps forty feet above the path. Enjolras shades his eyes to stare at them in the distance, and when he looks down again he finds Grantaire smiling at him.

"Ride with me," Grantaire says, and then he spurs his horse into a gallop, laughing. Enjolras follows him, his golden mare darting after Grantaire's stallion with barely a nudge, and when they reach the city gate they are side by side.

They slow their mounts to a walk and let the rest of the khalasar catch up to them. Beyond the gate is a broad, grassy lane that seems to lead right to the foot of the mountain, lined with statues that stand or lean like sentinels. Some are stone, with missing noses, arms, legs. Others are wood and bear the marks of fire and axe. There are human shapes, animal shapes, and shapes that are neither or both.

"They are gods," Grantaire says softly, though Enjolras has not yet asked. "When the Dothraki conquer a people, they bring their dead gods to Vaes Dothrak, as tribute."

Enjolras wonders what the Seven would look like, standing alongside the others. Maiden, Mother, and Crone; Father, Smith, and Warrior. The Stranger at least might fit here, cloaked and hooded as he is.

As they draw nearer to the base of the mountain, Enjolras realizes that there is a hall built at the end of the path. It is made of timber, carved in elaborate shapes, and he wonders where the wood came from, how it must have been hauled over the mountains or across a hundred leagues of the Dothraki Sea. That the home of the dosh khaleen is made of wood is a sign of power, of status. These are women to be respected and feared.

They dismount before the hall, and Bahoro takes the reins of their mounts to lead them away. Enjolras finds that his heart is pounding in his throat, faced with the unknown behind the great oaken doors.

"Should we announce ourselves?" he asks, and Grantaire shakes his head.

"Such things are a sign of...impatience. Disrespect. We do not interrupt the dosh khaleen at their work. They know we are here—they will welcome us when they are ready."

Enjolras begins to wonder how long they might have to wait, but then the massive doors shift and open. He takes a deep breath, and a young woman— _younger than I am, and already a widow_ , he thinks uneasily—opens the door and gestures for them to follow her.

The hall is dim after the sunlight outside, and Enjolras has to blink several times before his eyes adjust. There are wooden benches at long tables, and tapestries to brighten the walls. There must be a hundred women here, the widows of a hundred khals.

The room is silent at their approach, and then a tiny woman with dark skin and thick gray hair leaps up from her seat.

She seems as threatening as a kitten, but then she rushes upon Grantaire and slaps him soundly on the shoulder. Enjolras steps back in alarm, but Grantaire only laughs as the woman begins to scold him in thickly-accented Dothraki.

"It has been a _year_ ," she says. "I know you keep birds in your khalasar, you might have sent word. I did not know about your battle with Khal Jhonno until his khaleesi arrived."

Grantaire is still smiling, and when the woman pauses for breath he turns to Enjolras. "Enjolras, this is Nivvi. My mother."

"Your _mother_ ," he echoes, wide-eyed. If he had known he was going to meet Grantaire's mother so soon, he might have put on a clean tunic, or at least brushed the dust from his clothes.

Grantaire grins at his obvious shock. "Mother, this is Enjolras, my sun and stars."

She raises an eyebrow and turns to Enjolras, gauging him.

"I am honored to meet you," Enjolras says, hoping that his voice stays steady, that his Dothraki is correct.

She sweeps him into an embrace. "I am so pleased," she tells him, when she steps back. "He always said that solitude suited him, but I knew it to be a lie. You care for him, yes?"

"Very much."

"Good. Oh—but you must be tired, and hungry. We will dine in an hour, and you will dine with us, of course, both of you."

"Yes, mother," Grantaire says, still smiling. Enjolras can see the resemblance between them when he does that, the same crooked happiness in their smiles.

His mother stands on her toes and kisses his cheek. "I am glad to see you," she says, and then she steps away.

Grantaire takes a breath and turns around. "Come, we will go to the camp and rest for a while."

They step outside together, and Enjolras knocks the dust from his clothes in despair. "You might have let me make myself presentable, before you took me to meet your mother."

Grantaire waves a hand. "She would have been put out by the delay. And she probably would have hit me harder." He rubs his arm dramatically.

They hear the gathered khalasar before they see it, shouts and laughter echoing among the low hills. Here in Vaes Dothrak there is no need for defense, so the tents are spread haphazardly throughout the valley. One of the children from Mantarys rushes past, laughing, with a bouquet of wildflowers clutched in his fist. A tiny goat follows him on shaky legs, stopping to eat each fallen leaf and petal before bounding after him.

Grantaire's tent has been raised in the center of the valley. A servant lifts the tent flap to let them inside.

"I suppose you must have a bath, then," Grantaire teases.

"Do not mock me," Enjolras says without heat. "I want to make a good impression."

Grantaire turns a puzzled frown on him.

"I want your mother to like me. I want her to know—that I respect her," he says, breaking down the turn of phrase. "I do not want her to think you have made a poor choice."

He laughs. "I have made a great many poor choices in my life, but choosing you was not one of them." He presses a kiss to Enjolras' cheek. "I will send the servants for a basin and hot water. It is better if I am not here while you bathe, I think, or we might be late for dinner."

 

* * *

 

For all the intimidating majesty of the dosh khaleen, dinner in their hall is a comfortable, nearly cozy affair. Enjolras, who had been trained in how to use a dozen different types of tableware and how to conduct a conversation like a battle, finds himself at a loss for what to do.

Grantaire's mother takes pity on him and draws him into conversation. She asks a thousand questions about his family, his past, his happiness in the khalasar, and Enjolras answers her as best he can. She takes the news of his lineage in stride, though surely the madness of the Targaryen line is known even here.

Enjolras likes Nivvi immensely, and it makes him wonder what his own mother would be like, if she were alive. The thought brings an ache to his throat, and he sets down his cup of wine for a moment.

Grantaire catches the movement, and he sets down his own cup to cover Enjolras' hand with his own. "Are you well?" he asks softly.

Enjolras nods. "I wish...I wish that I could return the courtesy. That I could take you home to my mother, and have her dote on you and tease me as yours teases you. I think I regret more that _you_ cannot know her, than that I never did."

Grantaire is silent, and Enjolras wonders if he has somehow offended him. Finally, he shakes his head. "I can say nothing that will take your grief from you. But if you have need of mothering, I am sure that mine will happily oblige you."

Enjolras summons a smile, and it settles better on his face as the dinner continues. Nivvi continues her cheerful interrogation, and she is kind enough not to remark upon his grammar.

The hall grows crowded and warm, and to Enjolras it seems like an echo of his fever. He excuses himself for a moment, overwhelmed by noise and heat. He can feel the concern in Grantaire's gaze as he watches Enjolras wend his way through the hall.

Outside, the evening air is cool, and Enjolras draws in a deep breath. Already he feels steadier on his feet.

Behind him, the door opens. The noise of the banquet rises and then quiets again. Enjolras does not turn, guessing who has followed him, but the light tread on the flagstones is not Grantaire's.

"It is beautiful here," Nivvi says, standing beside him.

"Yes." The first stars are coming out, but the peak of the Mother of Mountains is still crowned with daylight.

"He tells me you were dreadfully ill, and he feared for you. You are recovered now?"

Enjolras nods. "I am. You are kind to ask."

"Is he good to you?"

Enjolras considers his answer. "He is the best thing that has ever come into my life," he says at last.

The fine wrinkles at the corners of her eyes deepen. "Good. His father raised him to rule, to conquer, but I tried to teach him that war-making is not the only strength."

"You did. He is kind as well as strong, and his people are ruled by their loyalty to him, and not by fear."

She leans against the wall beside him, her face tipped up to the stars. "My son has been marked with blood his whole life. When he was scarcely ten days old, we were set upon by a khalasar—larger and stronger than our own. While the khals were at battle, a small force was sent to pillage our undefended camp...and worse."

Her eyes grow cool and sharp. "They sent four men to kill my son, and not one of them crossed the threshold of our tent and lived to speak of it. He lay in a wicker basket the whole time, swaddled tight and hidden from view. Afterward, he cried—but only after it was done. I hoped that would not be an omen for the life he was to lead." She shakes her head, rousing herself from the memories. "But come. He will wonder what secrets we are trading, out here alone."

Enjolras offers her his arm, and they return to the hall. Grantaire smiles to see them together, and they finish the meal in peace.

When the dishes are cleared away, and one woman calls out to Grantaire's mother. "Nivvi," she says. "A word, please." She excuses herself to speak with the other dosh khaleen.

When she returns, she is in company with another woman, tall and straight-backed with hair gone white and skin carved into a thousand soft wrinkles. When she speaks, Enjolras does not recognize the language at first. Her Dothraki is strange, with an accent thick as quicksand to his untrained ears. He catches perhaps one word in five, and that is far too few to understand what is happening.

Grantaire's eyes grow wide as he listens, and worry sparks in Enjolras' heart like a stray ember from a fire. Finally, Grantaire takes pity on him and turns to explain, in the Common Tongue. "The dosh khaleen, they would grant you a—prophecy, I think you would say? It is a rare honor, even more for one not born to the Dothraki." He looks awed and almost uneasy.

"What does it entail?"

"Smoke and herbs to strengthen their visions. I have never been honored to receive a prophecy, nor to witness one."

"I do not suppose I could refuse, even should I wish to," Enjolras murmurs.

Grantaire smiles. "The dosh khaleen were once khaleesi. They do not know defiance."

"When will this happen?"

"Tomorrow night. The moon will be full again, a good time for beginnings."

Although Enjolras is no longer accustomed to meek obedience, he can see no benefit in refusing. He nods. "Please tell the dosh khaleen that I am honored by this gift and that I humbly accept."

Grantaire turns to the dosh khaleen and relays Enjolras' message. Although it has been months since Enjolras struggled to understand him, he can hear Grantaire's accent turning, thickening to match that of the dosh khaleen.

The old woman bows, and Grantaire returns the gesture. Enjolras hastily rises and bows as well, and then they leave the hall together.

They walk to the camp, but Grantaire does not pause at their tent. He walks on instead, and Enjolras walks beside him, until they reach the edge of a vast moonlit lake. After so long in the dry grasslands, the sight of so much still water is enough to steal his breath. "This is the Womb of the World," Grantaire says softly, "where the first man and the first horse rose from the waters at the dawn of all things."

A wind rustles through the grasses and plucks at Enjolras' hair, but it does not disturb the surface of the lake. The moon is an almost-perfect coin, reflected in the dark water. The Dothraki claim that the moon is an egg, that it birthed the dragons into the world long ago. Here with Grantaire, in the silent evening, it seems as though any tale may be true—prophecies and legends on equal footing with the history Enjolras has read in the magister's books.

"Tell me the truth," Enjolras says into the quiet. "Is this an honor or a burden that they offer me?"

Grantaire hesitates before he answers, as though he is grasping for the right words. "I cannot say," he admits. "Perhaps it is both, in its way. The dosh khaleen are very...private. This prophecy may be for you alone."

_Alone_? "You will not be with me?" He struggles to hide his unease at that thought.

"Only if they do not permit it. But you have nothing to fear from the dosh khaleen. To spill blood in Vaes Dothrak is to be sentenced to death—it is known."

Enjolras nods, but he knows there are a dozen ways to kill a man without shedding his blood. Poison, or drowning, or a hand wrapped tight around a throat...

He is thinking like a Targaryen still, like a man who has lived his entire life on the run. But for one of the Usurper's assassins to breach the sanctity of Vaes Dothrak itself is unimaginable. He is safe here, as safe as any man can be in this life.

"Do you fear them so?" Grantaire asks.

"I fear what they might tell me. I thought that I was free from my old life. To know that some strange destiny might yet await me is...frightening."

Grantaire catches Enjolras' hand, twining their fingers together. "Whatever your destiny, I can promise that you need not face it alone."

Enjolras turns to kiss him. Grantaire holds him close, and they are still for a long time, standing together at the edge of the water. There is a keenness to the air, here at the foot of the mountain, and Enjolras shivers.

"Come, we will go back to the tent," Grantaire says, drawing back. "You are cold."

Enjolras would be happy to stand here with Grantaire until the sun lightens the sky, but he nods instead. After all, there are some things better suited to the privacy of their tent.

As soon as the tent-flap falls closed behind them, Enjolras turns and kisses Grantaire again. His hands travel the planes of Grantaire's body, but when he reaches for the lacings at the front of his leggings, Grantaire catches his hands.

"Wait," he says softly, and Enjolras looks up at him.

"What is it?"

Grantaire hesitates. "Tonight, I would have you—" He frowns, and ventures something in Dothraki that Enjolras does not know. He picks out a root word—the ever-present  _dothra,_ to ride.

"You would like me to ride you?"

Grantaire shakes his head. "I would have you take my part, and I yours. I want to have you within me."

Heat ripples through Enjolras at the thought, but it is his turn to hesitate. "You know that I have never done that before."

"Nor have I." Grantaire says it so simply that Enjolras doesn't quite realize what he means for a moment.

"Not ever?"

"No. Some would say it is bad for a khal to do so—that it makes him weak, unfit to lead a khalasar."

"That is nonsense," Enjolras says flatly.

"Nonsense," Grantaire echoes, testing the Common word. "Non-sense. Yes. And yet I have never asked it of anyone. But with you—" He shrugs. "There is nothing I fear."

Enjolras kisses him again and leads him across the tent to their bed. They undress in silence, without ceremony, and only when Enjolras is kneeling over Grantaire does he speak.

"Tell me what I should do."

"The oil, first. Be generous with it; it will ease things."

Enjolras draws the glass jar from its place and opens it. It smells richly of summer, but it is cool when he pours a measure into his palm.

If he thinks overmuch, he will lose his courage. Hesitation will be his undoing. Grantaire would be kind enough not to ask again, but Enjolras would not forgive himself. He dips one finger into the oil. He looks up long enough to catch Grantaire's gaze, and he presses the tip of his finger inside.

Grantaire draws in a deep breath and lifts his hips. "Go on," he says.

Enjolras adds more oil, past caring about the bedclothes, and Grantaire's body unlocks to allow first one finger, then another. Grantaire's bottom lip is caught between his teeth, and he is watching Enjolras with an intensity beyond anything he has ever known.

"Is it—enough?" Enjolras asks. Grantaire has always seemed so sure, knowing exactly what Enjolras needed, but he lacks that confidence.

Grantaire nods and reaches for the jar of oil. "Let me?" He tips the jar so that the oil drips onto Enjolras' cock with teasing slowness. Enjolras shivers as Grantaire lays the bottle aside, then spreads the oil himself with delicate touches.

He recalls how careful Grantaire had been, on the night after the battle, and he does his best to match him, pressing inside by the tiniest increments. Grantaire is hot and tight around him, and by the time Enjolras is within him, they are both short of breath.

Grantaire gasps out a curse, and Enjolras stills. "Are you well? Should I—" He begins to move back.

He reaches out to catch Enjolras' arm, to hold him close. "No, no! Stay. I only...I did not know that it felt like this."

"If you mislike it, we can stop. You have only to say so."

"Mislike it? Gods, no. It feels—you feel—I do not have the words. Is this how it feels for you?"

"Every time," Enjolras says. He is sheathed inside Grantaire, joined to him in a way he had never dared dream.

Enjolras shifts back and pushes forward in a tentative stroke. Grantaire arches up to meet him, begging wordlessly for a faster pace. Enjolras obliges him as best he can, though the sensation is overwhelming. They move together, and the world narrows. The dosh khaleen and their prophecy are forgotten—it is as though nothing else exists.

But nothing lasts forever. Enjolras knows he cannot continue for very long, and he gathers himself enough to curl a hand around Grantaire's cock. He is too close, too wild with pleasure to keep a rhythm, but Grantaire's breath leaves him in a groan. His hands scrabble at Enjolras' hips, as though to draw him even closer, and then his spine arches and his head tips back as he comes.

The sight of him brings Enjolras to his end in a sudden rush, everything going dim around him as he leans over Grantaire, gasping.

Slowly, they return to themselves and the world around them. Enjolras eases back, and Grantaire tugs him down to lie half atop him on the bed. Grantaire's heart is still pounding beneath his palm, and Enjolras closes his eyes and waits for it to begin to slow again.

When he opens his eyes, it feels as though an age has passed, though the candles beside the bed show that it has been only moments. Grantaire is watching him, and when Enjolras meets his gaze he smiles and tucks a loose lock of hair behind Enjolras' ear.

"Thank you," he says, in teasing, halting Common, and Enjolras smothers a laugh against his shoulder. Of course he would understand those words _now_ , after everything.

He sleeps, and his dreams are untroubled.

 

* * *

 

The dosh khaleen do not force Grantaire from the hall of prophecy, but neither will they allow him to stand beside Enjolras. He must keep to the edges of the room, beyond the light of the brazier in the room's center, where Enjolras and three of the dosh khaleen are gathered.

But Enjolras holds to the knowledge that Grantaire is with him, and he stands tall. He bows before the dosh khaleen and speaks the words he had rehearsed a dozen times with Grantaire, to be sure of getting them right. "You do me honor to invite me here, and I stand ready to receive your wisdom."

They do not speak, but Enjolras catches a curve of a lip, a spark in one eye, and he thinks that perhaps they approve.

The eldest of the dosh khaleen approaches. She reaches within her cloak and withdraws a tiny pouch of ashes, which she scatters over the coals of the brazier. " _Vinesera_ ," she says.

A second woman, younger than the first, approaches with a handful of leaves. She crushes them in her hands and casts them onto the fire. " _Nesa_."

Finally, a third woman approaches, the youngest of them all. _Maiden, Mother, and Crone_ , Enjolras thinks. She lifts up her hands and pours a pile of small black seeds onto the brazier. " _Ajada arrek_ ," she says, and steps back.

The smoke billows and rises from the brazier like a living thing, boiling with shadows. The room grows warm and close, and Enjolras reels on his feet, suddenly lightheaded. Shapes form in the flames. They twist and dance, vanishing when Enjolras blinks, only to waver and return.

Time grows strange in the great, windowless hall. He might have been standing here for days or only moments, staring at the fire. When the first of the dosh khaleen speaks, it seems as though she has always been speaking, that it has been thus since the dawning of time.

" _Zhavorsak_ ," she says, in heavy, slow Dothraki. " _Khalakka_. Prince of two peoples. Horse-lord and father of dragons, last and first of his name. We greet you."

_Father of dragons_? Enjolras thinks, but his thoughts whirl away before the question can reach his lips.

"Child of cruelty and kindness. You bear a burdensome history, and the path before you lies shrouded in darkness."

Enjolras is no longer sure which of the dosh khaleen is speaking; it might be all three of them, or it might be none. It does not seem to matter.

"What must I do?" he asks. His voice has taken on the same lilt and cadence as the dosh khaleen, honey-slow and strange.

"You stand in the valley between glory and madness. You must choose which peak to climb."

Then he has a choice—he is not doomed like so many of his forebears. He draws in a deep breath that tastes of brimstone. "If it is my choice, then I would find a path between the mountains. I seek no further glory than to stand and fight at Grantaire's side."

"A fine answer," they say, nodding. "But all things change in time. Your path will not be so clear."

"How will I know when to choose?"

"You will know."

Enjolras frowns.

"Look into the fire. Perhaps it holds more answers for you."

Enjolras steps closer to the brazier, and its heat is like a balm. The dancing, changing figures from before have vanished, and he sees only the flames.

But he _hears_.

There is a cry, high and helpless and animal. Then a snapping, like a flag or a sail—is he meant to cross the sea? And laughter, hot and derisive. His brother's laugh.

When Enjolras looks down, there is blood on his hands. He blinks, and finds it is only a trick of the firelight.

One of the dosh khaleen steps forward and covers the brazier with a curved shield. The hall is instantly plunged into shadows, and a chill seems to stalk through the room like a hunter. The sudden darkness unmoors him, and he wavers dizzily on his feet.

A hand catches his shoulder as he sways. "Enjolras."

Grantaire. How could he have found him so quickly?

"Come."

Grantaire leads him out of the hall and into the night. Enjolras takes a breath of cool air and lets it out in a sigh. "I feel...strange," he says. It is like drunkenness, but the world seems over-bright, even though the moon is hidden behind the mountains and the city should be cast into shadows.

"It will pass," Grantaire replies gently. He is always gentle, _so_ gentle, and Enjolras loves him deeply for it.

Only when Grantaire turns to him, wide-eyed, does Enjolras realize that he has spoken aloud. His words hang on the air, though he knows not whether he spoke in Common or Dothraki. _I love you_.

He should reassure Grantaire, tell him that he did not say it in the hope of hearing his words returned, but the starlight catches on a bell in Grantaire's braid, and the beauty of it steals his breath. He reaches out to trace the shape of it, to hear the silvery sound it makes.

Grantaire huffs out a laugh. "You should sleep," he says.

Enjolras does not want to sleep. He wants to explore this night-bright world, before the moon sets and everything fades away. He wants to think about what the dosh khaleen said to him, about greatness and madness and dragons.

But he allows Grantaire to lead him back to the tent that they share, and unlace his painted vest, and spread the blankets over him. When Grantaire makes to step away, Enjolras catches his hand and tugs lightly, so that Grantaire will stay with him.

Grantaire climbs into bed beside him, close enough to touch. Enjolras turns, and his mouth fetches up against Grantaire's cheekbone, an accidental kiss.

" _Anha zhilak yera_ ," Grantaire says, his voice strangely heavy, and then Enjolras is asleep.

 

* * *

 

They leave Vaes Dothrak only a few days later, riding south and west again. East would take them to the lands of the Lhazarene, the Lamb-Men who make such easy prey for the Dothraki, but Grantaire disdains to travel there. There is no glory to be had, he says, against such an enemy, and Enjolras cannot help but be relieved. The Lhazarene are often taken for slaves and sold in the markets near Astapor and Meereen. Just the thought of a journey to the great slave-cities makes Enjolras feel ill.

"We will go to Volantis," Grantaire says, to Enjolras' surprise.

"Why?" There were merchants enough in Vaes Dothrak, if they sought to trade anything. And Volantis is far to the west, where the Rhoyne meets the southern sea. The khalasars rarely travel there.

"It is a good season for traders—the waters are calm before the autumn storms arrive. Soon the sea will grow so wild that the ports will be empty for months. If we seek to buy or to sell anything, it must be soon."

Enjolras cannot deny the sense of that, though he wonders what more the khalasar could need.

Grantaire grows quieter as they approach Volantis. He kisses Enjolras with the same fervor, and rouses to the same passion when they lie together, but afterward he falls silent, and lies awake deep into the night. Perhaps he is tiring of Enjolras at last—perhaps having him has made Grantaire realize that he wants more after all.

On the morning after they arrive outside the city, Enjolras wakes before Grantaire, just as the sun is rising. He lies very still, committing to memory the warmth of Grantaire's skin against his, the way he sighs in his sleep and kicks the blankets away. If Grantaire is going to send him away, he wants to have this moment, at least.

When Grantaire wakes, he bends towards Enjolras for a kiss, then summons a servant to bring them their breakfast. Enjolras finds that he has little appetite.

Neither does Grantaire—as though he is preparing himself to face an unpleasant duty. Enjolras reaches for a sugared date, and then puts it back down. He would not have the taste sullied with the memory of this ending.

"Enjolras."

He looks at Grantaire and finds a grave expression on his face. "Yes?"

"I brought us here to Volantis a for reason beyond trading...but I think you have guessed that already."

Enjolras holds his breath.

"The port at Volantis is crowded with ships. Some are bound east, some west, and then perhaps north along the Narrow Sea."

He pauses, and Enjolras waits for his dismissal.

"I want you to know that you are not bound to me. The dosh khaleen spoke of glory, perhaps more than can be found in a khalasar. You have only to ask, and I will pay your passage to whatever land you wish."

He does not look at Enjolras while he speaks, and Enjolras feels a rush of shameful relief. Grantaire was not preparing to leave him, he was preparing to be _left_ , girding himself against the fear that Enjolras would choose to leave the khalasar.

Grantaire is willing to give him this, even though the giving would break his heart. Enjolras loves him all the more for it.

Enjolras rises from the table and steps around it to kiss him. "Not for all the Seven Kingdoms would I leave you," he says fiercely, and when Grantaire looks up at him, his lips are curved in a faint smile.

"I had hoped you would say so. But if you find that you must go, I will bear you no ill feeling." He kisses Enjolras again. "I go to the horse-traders today. I know it will bore you, so go and explore the city. And if you choose to leave...then I wish you safe travels."

Enjolras waves a hand, as though brushing aside the last of Grantaire's words. The prophecy was vague, as all such things are. If Enjolras is the master of his fate, then he will not be parted from Grantaire.

"Will you take a guard with you? They will not prevent your leaving, if that is what you wish, but I fear for you."

Enjolras lets his hand fall to the knife at his belt. He has been practicing with Bossuo, and though he still prefers his bow, he is confident that he can defend himself. "I will be safe enough. A guard would be more likely to draw trouble than prevent it. If the Usurper has agents watching for me, they will expect me to be guarded. The blood of Old Valyria still runs strong in some of the Volantene families—one more blond, alone, will be beneath their notice."

Grantaire looks as though he would like to press a pair of bloodriders on him anyway, but he only nods. "Be on your guard," he says, and he smiles at Enjolras before leaving the tent.

Enjolras wanders the city alone. He keeps careful watch on his surroundings, but there is no danger here. The Usurper's men would scarcely know him now; he looks very little like the young man who mounted a golden mare and rode away from Pentos a year before. His hair is longer, bound back in a thick braid, and the sun has tanned his skin. He is stronger, too, and he holds his head high when he walks through the crowds.

Indeed, there are few in the world who would recognize him now, save—

"Enjolras!"

His heart turns to ice, and he meets his brother's eyes across the courtyard.

However much Enjolras has changed, Montparnasse appears the same as he did the morning he sold Enjolras to Grantaire. He is still handsome, still smiling, still every inch the Targaryen prince.

Outwardly, at least. Enjolras forces a smile. "It is good to see you," he lies.

"And you. I hear your Dothraki master has taken to you."

How can he have heard such a thing? Are there spies in Grantaire's khalasar, that might pass word along to him, or is his luck so poor that this meeting is by chance alone? "He has," Enjolras says.

"I am pleased to hear it. Will you not have a drink with me? The distance between us has led me to regret my past behavior, and I would make amends."

_Amends_. Enjolras draws a breath. He loved his brother once—perhaps Montparnasse remembers that, too. And to say no would risk his wrath, something that sends an old shiver of fear through Enjolras' heart.

But he is not without defenses now, and if Montparnasse truly _does_ wish to mend their differences... "I would like that."

Montparnasse smiles, looking relieved. "I know a place nearby. Come."

Enjolras follows him, keeping just out of his brother's reach. He will hope for the best, but he will be on his guard.

Montparnasse leads him through the crowded streets to a tavern at the base of a high stone building. The atmosphere inside is dim and close, the windows fogged with years of smoke from the fireplace. Enjolras has a clear memory of visiting this tavern once before, on one of the magister's journeys out of Pentos—this was where an unwise drunk had suggested Montparnasse was a bastard, and had lost his tongue for the insult.

Montparnasse calls for wine and leads Enjolras to a table in one corner, away from the stifling heat of the fire. The barman brings a dusty bottle of wine and a pair of glasses.

Enjolras watches carefully as his brother pours the wine. Montparnasse offers a toast, and Enjolras taps their glasses together. Even so, he waits until his brother has taken a sip of wine before raising his own glass to his lips.

"So wary," Montparnasse teases. "Do you not trust me, even now?"

_What reason have you ever given me to trust you?_ "It is not wise for anyone in a khal's household to trust too deeply," Enjolras says, though treachery is rare and dishonorable among the Dothraki.

Montparnasse eyes him over the rim of his glass. "You wear your hair as they do, now."

"Yes." Enjolras permits himself the vanity of shaking his head, to hear the bells chime. There are four of them now, for each of the battles he has fought alongside Grantaire and his bloodriders. "I have earned that right."

"By bedding your khal?"

"By fighting battles at his side," Enjolras snaps, bristling under his brother's derision. "You sold me like a slave—like a trinket that had grown burdensome to you. I will not be mocked for what I have made of it."

"No indeed," Montparnasse replies, with a smile that almost seems regretful. "Forgive me."

Enjolras' lips remain set, but he nods and reaches for his wine-glass once more. The wine is terrible, but he has not forgotten his manners, after all. "How is Magister LaMarque?"

"The same as ever. He is away more often than not, and when he is in Pentos he is forever hosting tiresome parties for his political allies. I believe he means to marry me off to one of their daughters."

"A wretched fate, I am sure," Enjolras replies carefully. His brother is arrogant enough that he will never suppose Enjolras pities the woman, rather than him.

"Quite so. He should know better—how could I lower myself to marry a merchant's or magister's daughter? I might as well wed a Dothraki savage. _Princesses_ should prostrate themselves before me and beg for my hand."

Enjolras lets the insult about the Dothraki sail past him, buoyed as he is by the wine. He does not wish to start a fight; he remembers too well what it means to wake the dragon that lurks beneath his brother's smile.

He is alone here, and this was a mistake. He should never have come. But his brother pours them another glass of wine, and Enjolras squares his shoulders. He will finish this glass, and then he will go. He does not belong to Montparnasse anymore, and he can leave whenever he pleases.

He listens absently while Montparnasse talks of life in Pentos. A second glass has not improved the taste of the wine. It remains over-sweet and cloying, and he sips it slowly while his brother speaks for a long time about the tournaments and celebrations in the city. Perhaps he means to make Enjolras envy the life he can no longer touch, but every word makes him long to be back in the camp, in the tent that he shares with Grantaire. He sets down his empty glass.

"I thank you for the wine," he says, "but I must go. I told Grantaire that I would return by nightfall." There is no telling the time in this airless tavern. It might be growing dark already.

"And he will be wroth with you, if you are late?"

Enjolras laughs. "No. He will only worry, and I would not give him pain."

"Very well, then." Montparnasse reaches for the bottle. "One more toast, then, to your Dothraki master."

"Husband," Enjolras supplies. _Kemak_ is a word for a partner, a spouse, and though there has been no ceremony, he feels justified in using the word.

"As you like."

Enjolras lifts his glass, relief filling him to the tips of his fingers. He should not have had so much wine, but this meeting is at an end now, and a small, dishonorable part of him hopes that it may be their last. He taps their glasses together. "To Grantaire," he murmurs. "My _husband_."

Montparnasse raises his glass to his lips and makes a face as he swallows. "I detest sour wine," he says ruefully, "but it is the best this cesspool could offer."

Enjolras frowns. "Sour? I thought it was rather the opposite."

"Ah, well. That would be the sweetsleep, I'm afraid."

_Sweetsleep_. Enjolras pushes himself to his feet and stumbles as the floor seems to lurch beneath him. "But—we were drinking from the same bottle. How did you—?"

He smiles. "It was never in the bottle. The barman coated the rim of your glass. You cannot think that I meant to let you _leave_ here, brother."

"You poisoned me." The words feel thick on Enjolras' tongue.

"Only a little. You will sleep, but you will wake, I promise."

He shakes his head, and the room whirls around him. "No. No, you can't do this—"

Montparnasse rises and takes his arm, as though to steady him. "Don't fight, darling. It will only make it worse."

Enjolras wrenches his arm out of Montparnasse's grasp. He manages two staggering steps before his knees unhinge and he begins to fall. Strong hands catch him around his waist, fingers digging into flesh, and his brother's voice snarls in his ear. "Little fool. How far did you think you would get?"

Enjolras remembers the knife at his belt, but his hands are as sluggish as his mind, and the blade is snatched away before he can close his fingers on the hilt. " _Help me_ ," he cries out, but the men in the tavern are still and silent as stone.

Montparnasse laughs. "You will get no aid here. For a silver stag these men would sell their own mothers. And I paid them in gold." He leans in close to whisper again, gentle as a lover. "Of course, I have a man waiting outside. He will kill them all and set fire to the inn—even if your precious khal comes looking for you, there will be no one to tell him what has become of you. Perhaps he will think you burned alive, hm?"

Enjolras sags in his grip, no longer able to hold himself upright. Montparnasse shifts him so that Enjolras is leaning against his shoulder, like any drunkard who might be leaving the tavern. But instead of stepping out into the street, Montparnasse half-carries him down a staircase to the cellar, and then up another flight of stairs and into an alleyway. A painted mummers' wagon is waiting there for him.

Enjolras makes one last attempt to pull away, but Montparnasse closes his hand around Enjolras' hair and yanks him back. The force of it rips the leather cord from the end of his braid, and he hears a distant ringing as his bells scatter across the cobbles. Montparnasse heaves him into the cart, and Enjolras sprawls helplessly on a pile of rough flour-sacks.

The cart lurches into motion, and then darkness claims him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: A character is drugged in a tavern.
> 
> Translations: 
> 
>   * _Kemak_ is a delightfully un-gendered word meaning "spouse." _Kemaki_ is the plural form.
>   * _Vinesera_ \--what is remembered
>   * _Nesa_ \--what is known
>   * _Ajada arrek_ \--what will come after
>   * _Zhavorsak_ \--dragon lord, or dragon prince
>   * _Khalakka_ \--heir to a khal, or an approximation of "prince"
>   * _Anha zhilak yera_ —I love you.
> 

> 
> All Dothraki translations were made using the dictionary and grammar guides at [the Dothraki Wiki](http://wiki.dothraki.org). All errors are mine.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see end notes for content warnings.

 

He wakes in his old room, and for a brief, sickening moment he wonders if the past months have all been a dream. It seems impossible that he should ever have left this house, this city, that he could have fallen in love with a horselord and fought battles by his side.

Then his mind begins to clear, and he remembers his brother's betrayal. Grief and fury wash over him like a fever. He was a fool, full of a baseless hope of brotherhood and reconciliation, and it has cost him everything.

He raises his head, and then slowly shifts to sit with his back against the headboard. He aches all over, as though he has ridden a long way in a cart or a litter, and his head throbs. Somewhere in his mind he remembers the creak and snap of sails, and he thinks of the vision he had in Vaes Dothrak. It had been a warning after all, but one he had not understood until too late.

He thinks he recalls the rolling of the sea, and someone pressing a cup to his lips. The sweetsleep would not have kept him docile for the whole journey to Pentos—Montparnasse must have been giving him milk of the poppy, to keep him from fighting. It would account for the lightness of his head, the trembling weakness of his body. He is hollow with hunger, yet the thought of food makes him want to retch.

There is a pitcher of water by his bedside, and his thirst is so great that he drinks without stopping to consider whether it might be tainted. When it does not drug or poison him, he climbs out of his bed and stumbles across the vast expanse of the room to the door.

It is locked, of course, and from without. It had never been so, not in all the years he had lived here, but now he is a prisoner in what had once been his home.

Even the effort of crossing the room has left him faint, and he returns to the respite of his bed with relief. He sits at the edge of it and bows his head, waiting for the darkness to fade from the edges of his vision. His hair falls into his eyes, and he shakes it back.

He frowns. Something is wrong, something is _missing_...

There is no chiming from the bells in his braid. Slowly, as though caught in a dream, he reaches up to touch his hair, and finds the ends hacked short at the nape of his neck.

A cry tears itself from his lips. A Dothraki's braid is his honor, never to be cut save in defeat. And Montparnasse has taken it from him, not in battle but with treachery. The bells are gone, the bells that he _earned_ , scattered across some filthy alleyway in Volantis, and he will never, ever see Grantaire again.

Panic closes in around him, like the heavy stone walls are tilting, crumbling, ready to bury him beneath their immense weight. He pushes himself upright and opens the balcony doors. These, at least, are not locked, and Enjolras can feel the cool salt air on his face. The sea is a hundred feet below, thundering against the base of the cliffs. There is no escape here, save to leap from the balcony onto the rocks—and though he does not see what hope he can have, he is not yet lost to despair. He has tasted freedom once, and he knows that there is life beyond his brother's petty cruelties.

The lock on his door rattles, and a servant appears with a tray. Enjolras rushes forward, seeing only the open door and the hallway beyond, but Montparnasse is waiting behind the servant. He shoves Enjolras back into the room, sending him reeling. He keeps his feet, but only just. His hands curl into fists.

"Let me go," he says, his voice rough and aching. "You have no right to keep me here."

"No right? You forget your place, brother. When I saw you in the city, you spoke to me as an _equal_. As though a khal's whore could ever be my equal. I am the _rightful king_ of Westeros!"

"And such a king you are. Bold enough to speak the title but too cowardly to cross the Narrow Sea and claim it for yourself."

Montparnasse's eyes flash with anger, but he smiles, and his rage vanishes beneath a screen of calm. "My brother's travels have wearied him," he says, in the tones of an indulgent parent. "A good meal and a night's rest will soon restore his temper." He gestures to the servant, who lays his tray on the room's small table and lifts the cover.

The smell of the food is enough to make Enjolras' mouth water, but he holds his ground.

"I will come back tomorrow," Montparnasse says. "Perhaps by then you will have regained your manners."

He walks out of the room with the servant, and the heavy sound of the lock echoes in the quiet.

The moment he is alone, Enjolras sets aside his dignity and tears into the food the servant has laid out. He cannot help noticing that none of it requires a knife, and the serving-dish is silver, not made of the more common glazed clay that could be broken into shards and used as a weapon. The food itself is rich— _too_ rich, he realizes, when he is finished—and it is all he can do to climb into bed and curl up beneath the heavy blankets.

He leaves the balcony door thrown wide, and he dreams that Grantaire has climbed the stone tower to rescue him.

The next morning dawns the same as the last. A servant brings him breakfast, and another his lunch. Enjolras does not recognize them, and they say nothing, not even when he asks for their names.

The hours wear on into the afternoon, and he watches the shadows shift as the sun passes high overhead. He wonders how many days will pass like this, and how long it will take before the rocks below begin to call to him.

Magister LaMarque must not know what Montparnasse has done—he would never allow such a thing, Enjolras is certain. The magister has been known to vanish into his study for days at a time, sleeping on a pallet by the window and rousing himself from his reading only to eat. Perhaps he is doing so now, perhaps there are only a few stone walls between Enjolras and the man who will deliver him from his imprisonment.

He steps out onto the balcony and calls for the magister, over and over again. He cries for help until his throat aches and his strained voice is lost in the pounding of the surf below, but no one comes for him.

In the evening, Montparnasse summons him to dinner. A servant brings him a fine silk tunic and leggings, but Enjolras only shakes his head. He has lost his bells and his braid—the Dothraki clothes are all he has to remind himself that any of it was real.

The servant leads him down to the great hall, and Enjolras sits down in his accustomed seat. He had sat here on the evening that Montparnasse had announced his betrothal, scarcely a year before. It seems already as though it happened in another lifetime, to another man.

Montparnasse's expression darkens when he sees that Enjolras has refused his offer of Westerosi clothing, but he says nothing throughout much of the meal. There is wine, and veal, and the dates that Enjolras has always loved. It is as though Montparnasse wishes to win him over, despite keeping him imprisoned.

"Have you had your fill of shouting?" Montparnasse asks him mildly, when they have finished.

Enjolras says nothing.

"You may as well cease calling for the magister. He won't answer."

"I know that, now. He must be away—he would never have allowed you to do this. When he returns, he will put things right."

Montparnasse shakes his head. "LaMarque is dead."

" _Dead_? But you told me—"

"I lied."

"How did it happen?"

"He was very old, little brother. He caught a chill, and at his age... If it is any comfort to you, his illness was brief, and he did not suffer long."

A shiver works its way down Enjolras' spine. "Yes, I am certain his dying was very easy. How did you do it? With sweetsleep and a silken pillow?"

He makes no pretense of denial. "He had no children, you know. No heirs but us. The estate was to be divided equally between the two of us, but as you were gone..."

"His estate passed solely to you. How fortunate."

"Less fortunate than I had hoped, truth be told. His gold is too deeply tied to the city to make use of it, and even if I were to sell the house, there are few families in Pentos with the means to purchase it."

"A shame, to have murdered a man for so little profit," Enjolras says drily, to cover his grief. His hands curl into fists in his lap. The magister had given them shelter, and kindness, and the run of his household—and this is how Montparnasse has repaid him? He takes a breath and rallies himself. "But then, I had thought my bride-price was such that you could buy yourself an army. Why are you not even now scouring the Seven Kingdoms with your mercenary warriors?"

"The time is not right. Westeros tears itself apart with war, even as winter sweeps down from the North. What warriors do not fall in battle will fall to cold and hunger. When spring thaws King's Landing, I will sail into the harbor with my men, and by nightfall I will sit the Iron Throne."

Enjolras lifts an eyebrow, but he says nothing. Montparnasse drains his glass of wine and rises from the table. "You are excused." He flicks a hand towards the stairs. "But I will have no more of this shouting, for the magister or anyone else. It will do you no good, and I find it tiresome."

"I don't care if it is tiresome," Enjolras replies.

"If you will insist on continuing, I can remove you to a place where there are no balconies—or even any windows. Magister LaMarque was a soft-hearted man, but there are cellars and store-rooms in the cliffs below us that would soon teach you to hold your tongue. They have not been used in a century or more, which is lucky for you—all the rats will have starved. Most likely," he adds, as an afterthought.

Enjolras thinks of being confined in a tiny, damp room, with no way to see the sun or the sky. After a year on the Dothraki Sea, it would drive him mad. He knows he will keep quiet tomorrow, just as his brother intended, and he rages to find himself so easily manipulated.

But he must keep a tight leash on his anger. If he protests, he will wake the dragon; better to give in, even if he is only pretending. Enjolras casts his gaze down. "What do you mean to do with me?" he asks quietly.

Montparnasse considers him steadily. "I have not decided yet. Perhaps I will ransom you back to your Dothraki master...or perhaps I will find another suitor, willing to take his leavings. Thank the Seven that you had sense enough not to mar yourself with those hideous tattoos that the khals wear, or no one civilized would have you. In the meantime, I will send servants up to bathe and feed you, and they will dispose of the Dothraki rags you are wearing."

"No," Enjolras bursts out. Montparnasse has already taken his hair and his home—he cannot lose this, too.

He raises an eyebrow. "And how many nights in the cellars will it take, do you think, before you regret that choice?"

Enjolras clenches his jaw and says nothing.

"I thought as much. Lest you think of causing trouble, know that any attempt to escape will have the same result. And, since I cannot punish you further if I wish to keep you in a presentable state, I will punish a servant instead, while you watch."

It is not the first time that Montparnasse has threatened harm to someone else to keep him in line. He knows that Enjolras will not allow anyone to suffer for his own sake.

Montparnasse beckons one of the servants forward, and Enjolras is escorted back to his room and locked inside for the night.

True to his word, his brother sends more servants to him in the morning, with hot water and fresh clothing.

He takes little joy in the bath, though the steam should have been enough to loosen even the tensest muscles. When a servant moves to collect his Dothraki clothes, Enjolras catches the woman's wrist gently.

"Please," he says, knowing already that she will not respond. "Please, let me keep them. To remember. I'll hide them, he won't know that I have them, only...Grantaire gave them to me. Please, they are all that I have."

She says nothing, but her eyes soften and she tucks the folded clothing beneath the mattress of Enjolras' bed. "Thank you," he says, his throat tight with relief. If his time on the Dothraki Sea begins to fade into a dream, at least he will have this much to remind himself of what he once had.

 

* * *

 

The days follow slowly after that. He has stopped hoping that the servants might speak to him, no matter what he asks—their names, the day, the number of guards at the door. It is dreadfully lonely, worse even than his first days among the khalasar, when there was no one else who spoke the Common Tongue.

On the fourth—or perhaps the fifth—day, Montparnasse returns. He is carrying a small wooden chest, which he lays down on the room's table. Enjolras is wearing the clothes that he had been given, and that wins him an approving glance.

"I have decided what is to be done with you," Montparnasse says. He pauses, as though waiting for Enjolras to ask what he has chosen, but Enjolras does not care to play his part any longer.

He carries on as though he has not noticed Enjolras' lack of cooperation. "It seems to me that we can be of aid to each other. After all, you wish to return to your Dothraki master—"

" _Husband_ ," Enjolras corrects, his voice whip-sharp and rasping with disuse.

"He may have taken you as his bride, but you began as his whore. Never forget that."

Enjolras only lifts his head, refusing to be shamed.

"No matter. If he has grown so fond of you, then no doubt he will pay for your safe return. Is there anyone in his mob capable of reading?"

"Only in Dothraki," Enjolras lies, on a sudden inspiration. "Give me a quill and ink, and I will plead for him to ransom me."

His eyes narrow. "How do I know you will not send him a lie?"

"What lie could I tell him? That you hold me prisoner, and that he should bring his khalasar to rescue me? They would be routed at the walls of Pentos—or at least, the walls would slow their advance, and give you time to flee the city. No, brother, for once our desires align. You wish to be rid of me, and I wish to be returned to Grantaire. I will write to him, whatever you ask. You may even have Miriya read it to you when it is done," he adds recklessly.

"Miriya is...no longer in the service of this household," Montparnasse says with distaste, and Enjolras prays to the Seven that her indenture had ended, that she had not been turned out onto the streets after his departure. Montparnasse opens the little chest and draws out writing paper, a quill, and a bottle of crimson ink.

Enjolras takes the quill and the paper and looks up at his brother expectantly. "Well? What am I to write?"

"Tell him that I want five thousand gold dragons."

"Is that more or less than you demanded for my virginity?" Enjolras asks mildly.

"Less, of course. You are not worth so much, now that you have been bedded. Now, I could kill him when he brings the ransom, and then sell you again. There are those who would not object to marrying a widower, though we may need to conceal the identity of your past lover..."

Enjolras pushes the paper away. "If you mean to hurt him, I will not write a word."

"It was only a jest," he says, with a thin, mocking smile. He pushes the paper back towards Enjolras. "Five thousand gold dragons, to be delivered here before the next full moon."

Enjolras nods. He dips his quill, takes a deep breath, and begins.

 

_Moon of my life—_

_By the time you read this, I will be far from you._

_Forgive me. This is not the life I sought for myself, and I can no longer abide the wandering ways of a horselord. I set sail for Braavos on the evening tide. I have entrusted this message to a servant, who swears he will see it to you—be kind to him, please. It is not his fault that the tidings he bears are grim._

_I am grateful for the kindness you have shown me. You made a nightmare into a pleasant idyll, but it could not last._

_Do not look for me._

_Enjolras_

 

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, willing away the tears that have gathered there, and then he slides the page across the table. "There," he says. "Have it taken to him. The khalasar will not have traveled far from Volantis. A fast ship and a swift rider could reach them in a week."

Montparnasse eyes the letter, though Enjolras knows that the Dothraki words mean less than nothing to him. "Have you begged prettily for your rescue?"

"Of course. Would you like me to read it to you?"

"I do not need to hear the details of your pathetic pleading," he says, and then he lunges across the table. He seizes Enjolras' short hair in his fist, and Enjolras catches sight of a flashing blade. He ducks aside, but Montparnasse holds his trophy aloft—a lock of pale blond hair. He smiles as he slips it into the folded letter.

"So he will know I do not lie," Montparnasse says, reaching for the sealing wax.

Enjolras watches the black wax drip onto the letter, watches his brother press the Targaryen seal to the paper. Even here in Pentos, it is not wise to flaunt their lineage, but Enjolras cannot bring himself to care. He spent too many years trying to counter his brother's lack of wisdom, and he will not stir himself to do so any longer.

Montparnasse takes up the letter, the quill, and the ink, and leaves the room without a word, trapping Enjolras in silence and solitude once more.

The lock of hair will make a strange addition to the letter. Perhaps Grantaire will see it as a token, a farewell. He will have no cause to view it as a threat. Enjolras grieves for the pain that his letter will bring to Grantaire, and it is small comfort to know that he may well have bought Grantaire's life with his words. If he never comes to Pentos, then Montparnasse cannot harm him. Enjolras can abide anything his brother plans for him, so long as he knows that Grantaire is safe.

 

Montparnasse leaves him in peace after that. Enjolras' cooperation buys him a handful of old books to read, and though he is soon finished with all of them, he reads them again and again, to pass the time. They are heavy tomes of history and dragon-care and make for tedious reading, but they are the only distraction he has.

But if the days have grown more bearable, the nights have gotten worse. He lies awake while the stars turn slowly outside his window, and he is tormented by the thought of Grantaire reading his letter. Will he be angry first, and sorry after, or will it happen the other way? He hopes the sorrow will come first, so that Grantaire can burn away the grief with a blaze of anger and move on with his life. He will hate Enjolras for betraying him, but he will _live_ , and that is all that Enjolras dares hope for.

Weeks pass—two, and then three. On the nights when his brother summons him to dinner, he makes sly comments about Grantaire, deriding his supposed love for Enjolras. Enjolras says nothing, but he is beginning to form a plan. The servants are too frightened of punishment to risk speaking to him, let alone aiding his escape, but there is a heavy iron candlestick at Enjolras' bedside. A blow from it might stun the servant, giving him time to slip away.

He does not know where he might go afterward, or what he is fit to do. He will be penniless and alone, but he will at least be free.

That, or he will fail in his escape, and die. He thinks he could be content with that—it is what Grantaire might call a good death.

_Grantaire_. He has thought about seeking him out, should he escape, but he would be fortunate if Grantaire did not have him killed on sight. Enjolras' letter was unforgivably cruel, and though it was done in Grantaire's defense, it does not absolve him. Perhaps he _will_ go to Braavos, then, or south to Lys or Lorath. He could even sail to Dorne—the Martells had once been friends to the Targaryens, and might give him a home. He will never again be so happy as he was with Grantaire, but it could be enough.

Perhaps.

On the night of the full moon, Montparnasse bursts into his room in a towering rage. Someone or something has woken the dragon, and he means to make Enjolras suffer for it. He paces the length of the room without a word. He has been drinking, but he is not drunk—at least, not so drunk that Enjolras might be able to overpower him and escape.

The old fear begins to rise within him, memories of a childhood spent like dry tinder, waiting for a spark to light the flame of his brother's fury. Something within him goes still and quiet, motionless with terror.

But then he remembers who he is. _Dragon-prince_ , the dosh khaleen had named him. _Last and first of his name_. He takes a steady breath and stands tall, waiting for his brother to speak.

"Where," Montparnasse begins, and then stops his pacing. "Where is your _fucking_ husband?"

"I don't know."

"Does he lack the gold to pay your ransom? Or were you mistaken, and he does not care for you after all?"

Enjolras says nothing.

"Perhaps he is dead, then—killed by some other savage, no doubt."

The words are meant to strike fear into his heart, but they glance off, like arrows turned aside by heavy scales. Enjolras gives him a serene smile. "He is not coming for me. He will never come."

His brother's eyes narrow. "What do you mean?"

"I never gave him your demands. In the letter, I told him that I was leaving him, that I had gone to Braavos alone and would not return. If he tries to seek me out, he will look there—never here. I would sooner lose him forever than allow you to harm him."

Montparnasse lashes out with a backhand that would have caught Enjolras across the cheekbone, but Enjolras raises his own hand to block him. The impact jars them both, and Montparnasse's eyes widen. Enjolras has never truly resisted him, not once in all their lives.

"Did you think I would let you control me?" Enjolras asks, and in place of his fear is a weary sorrow. Of course he thought so, because for all of his cruelty and his pride, Montparnasse is a fool. "Set me free or kill me, but I will not be sold again."

His brother steps back, and Enjolras' heart sings. He has never given ground to Enjolras before, never treated him as an equal, a threat. Tonight, Montparnasse looks at him and truly sees him.

"I will give him a fortnight," he says. "After that, you will no longer be of use to me."

Still standing in the middle of the room, Enjolras watches his brother leave. He listens for the turning of the key in the lock, as he does every night, hoping that perhaps one day some kind servant will simply forget to secure the door—but not this night.

He sleeps better after that, knowing that Grantaire is beyond Montparnasse's reach. He can bear whatever his brother might do to him, so long as he carries that knowledge inside him.

 

* * *

 

The moon is waning, just a thin crescent in the sky—in three days, the fortnight that his brother promised him will be over. Enjolras does not think that Montparnasse would dare go so far as to kill him, but he would not have believed that he would kill the magister, either. He does not intend to find out whether Montparnasse will carry out his threat. Tomorrow night, he will make his escape.

When the servant comes to bring him his supper, Enjolras will hit him with the iron candlestick by his bed. He hopes such a blow will not be fatal, but it must at least stun the servant—he cannot allow them to raise the alarm. He will take whatever food he can carry, and then he will run. The magister has always kept a rack of old daggers above the fireplace in his study; Enjolras will take one of them, if he can, and then a horse from the stables. If he is very, very fortunate, no one will know he is missing until morning, and by then he can be leagues away. He has put by a little of the food the servants leave for him, a few heels of bread and some apples. It is enough for a day or two.

After that, he will truly be on his own.

There is a sound in the hall, a faint scuffling noise, and Enjolras frowns. It is very late, and he has already been served his dinner. Perhaps Montparnasse has decided not to wait for the new moon. Perhaps he means to put an end to his burdensome brother once and for all.

It will not end without a fight. Enjolras picks up the candlestick beside his bed, prying off the melted wax stumps in the hope that the small candle-spikes might improve the weapon. He gives it an experimental swing, and then takes up a position beside the door.

An instant later, he hears a key turn in the lock, and the door swings open to reveal a dim silhouette in the doorway, broad-shouldered and too short to be Montparnasse. A servant, then, or an assassin. After all, his brother has rarely been one to dirty his own hands.

The man steps into the room, and the moonlight falls on his face.

Enjolras drops the candlestick.

It falls to the rug with a dull clatter, and Grantaire turns toward the sound in time to catch Enjolras as he throws his arms around him.

"You should not have come," he says, holding Grantaire tightly. "I told you not to come for me, I said that I was sailing to Braavos—"

"You said that. And yet here you are." Grantaire takes half a step back from him, and Enjolras rushes to explain.

"I am sorry to have lied to you. My brother meant to ransom me, and he threatened to have you killed when you came for me. So I tried to keep you as far from here as I could. I never wished to hurt you—please believe me. I only wanted to keep you safe."

"What does a khal care for _safety_?" Grantaire counters. "I would take on the whole Golden Company alone for your sake."

"But the horrible things I said—"

 "I knew they were a lie. The seal on the letter only told me where to look. When you did not return from Volantis that night, I tried to learn what had become of you. I meant to go down to the docks, to ask if anyone had seen you. But there had been a fire in a tavern, and when I turned down an alley to pass it by...I found these." Grantaire opens his hand to reveal two tiny brass bells nestled in his palm.

" _Oh_ ," Enjolras says, reaching out for them. But he stops suddenly and lets his hand fall. "He cut my hair."

"So I see."

"I don't deserve them anymore."

"You _do_. This was not defeat on the battlefield—this was foul and dishonorable. When your hair is long again, we will braid the bells into it once more."

Enjolras seizes on that one word— _we_ —and he steps close to Grantaire to kiss him. Grantaire holds him tightly, and Enjolras longs to pull him backwards to the bed in the center of the room. But time is not a luxury that they possess. "I will not be missed until morning," he says. "We can slip out without being noticed, and we will be halfway to the Rhoyne by the time my brother realizes we are gone."

"No," Grantaire says softly.

"No?"

Grantaire gives him a gentle, sad look. "If we leave here, will he ever stop hunting for you? Will you ever be safe?"

A deep well of fear seems to open in the pit of his stomach. "No," he whispers.

Grantaire traces a fingertip over Enjolras' cheekbone. "Then let me make you safe."

Enjolras knows what is encompassed in those words. _Let me make you safe_. He allows himself to imagine it, a life in which he need no longer tremble in fear of the past. Grantaire is offering him freedom from his brother in the only way that he can. It would be a monstrous thing to say yes, to ask the man he loves to kill his brother. But the choice is given to him alone. He knows that if he refuses, Grantaire will walk away from this place in peace.

"Let me speak with him first," Enjolras says at last. "If he swears never to harm us, then I would have you spare him."

"If you wish it," Grantaire replies, though Enjolras can see the banked flame of his anger in the taut line of his jaw, the set of his shoulders. He would rather cut Montparnasse's throat than allow him the chance to harm Enjolras again.

"The servants," Enjolras begins, not certain he wishes to know.

"They were easily persuaded to let me pass. Gold can open some locks more easily than a key."

A single gold dragon would be a year's pay or more for a servant—of course they were willing to let Grantaire inside. If they are wise, they will take the first ship to leave port on the morning's tide.

Montparnasse had bribed the men in the tavern with gold as well, and then sent a man to kill them and reclaim the bribe. Yet he dared to call _Grantaire_ a savage...

They step out of the room and into the silent hallway. Grantaire starts towards the sweeping staircase, but Enjolras stops him with a hand on his arm. He pushes open the door of LaMarque's study, now dusty and close, and crosses to the fireplace. A collection of knives and daggers hangs above it, and Enjolras lifts one from its hooks. Most of the blades are gilded and dull, or too elaborately jeweled to be useful, but the one that Enjolras chooses is fine dark steel with a dragonbone hilt, short enough to conceal if need be. It is a pitiful counterpart to Grantaire's arakh, but Enjolras would not leave him to fight alone.

At first, it seems as though the whole great house is deserted. They meet no one in the corridors or on the stairs, and even the main hall appears empty, lit only by candles and a dying fire in the hearth.

Then a faint motion catches Enjolras' eye, and he sees that there are guards at the far end of the hall, standing before the doors that open onto the terrace. He catches Grantaire's arm to warn him, and that is when Montparnasse steps forward into the firelight.

Enjolras steps in front of Grantaire. "Brother," he says calmly, and Montparnasse's face twists.

"Did you think you could escape?" he hisses. "Did you think I would let you _walk out of here_?"

"Yes."

"Then you are a fool."

"If you let us pass, no one needs to be hurt," Enjolras says earnestly. "If you swear never to come for me again, then no harm will befall anyone here. We give you our word."

"And what does a man's _word_ mean to a Dothraki savage?"

"Everything," Grantaire says quietly, and Montparnasse startles to hear him speak the Common Tongue. "My sun-and-stars has asked me to be merciful, and I will do as he asks. But you must give your word."

Montparnasse sneers. "And if I refuse? What will you do then? My guards will kill you before you reach the door."

"Perhaps. But you will already be dead." Grantaire's voice is quiet, almost gentle, but his hand rests on the hilt of his arakh in silent warning.

"Please," Enjolras says. "Please, Montparnasse. Promise that you will leave us in peace, and you will never see us again, I swear it."

For a moment, Montparnasse's hands curl into fists, but he nods and drops into a mocking half-bow. "Of course," he says, standing aside. "How could I refuse a Dothraki prince?"

Enjolras sighs with relief. "Thank you."

Grantaire looks over at Enjolras, who nods. They walk together past Montparnasse as the guards unbar the wide door at the end of the hall. Grantaire does not give Montparnasse a second glance—he is defeated, already forgotten.

It is Enjolras who turns back, wanting one last glimpse of his brother, knowing that this is the last time they will ever meet.

He looks back in time to see the mask of calm slip from Montparnasse's features. He draws a dagger from his belt and lunges for Grantaire.

Enjolras is moving before he knows it. His fingers curl around the dragonbone hilt of his knife as he draws it and places himself between his brother and Grantaire.

The blade slips beneath Montparnasse's ribs, through silk and flesh.

The dagger falls from Montparnasse's hand, clattering to the floor, and Enjolras catches his brother as he slips to his knees. Behind him he hears Grantaire's startled curse, as though he cannot believe the depths of Montparnasse's treachery.

There is no use calling for a maester. Enjolras knows that his blade struck home, and Montparnasse knows it as well. For the first time in his life, Enjolras sees _fear_ in his brother's eyes. He kneels on the floor and gathers him into his arms. Blood seeps into his clothes and smears on his hands, but he hardly feels it.

Montparnasse is gasping, still reaching out for his dagger, but Grantaire kicks it away.

"You gave me your word," Enjolras says, his voice cracking. "You promised. I didn't—I never wanted this to happen." He brushes a lock of hair out of his brother's eyes. "Tell our mother I love her. And that I am sorry."

There is none so accursed as a kinslayer, Enjolras knows that well. He killed in defense of his husband, but the burden and the taint will be his to bear for the rest of his life.

A drop of blood wells from the corner of Montparnasse's lips, and Enjolras reaches up to wipe it away.

"Forgive me," Enjolras whispers.

His brother's eyes close, his hand falling limp to the marble floor. Enjolras' vision blurs with tears. In all of the years that he had longed to be free of his brother, he had never wished for it to happen this way. Grief rushes over him like a tide, threatening to drown him, and he struggles to draw in a breath. Montparnasse was his family, the _last_ of his family, and now he is truly alone.

"Enjolras."

No—not alone. He looks up bleakly and finds that Grantaire is kneeling beside him. "We must go," he says softly. "I told Bahoro that I would return by tomorrow's sunset. If I do not, he is to take the khalasar far from here, and become khal himself."

Enjolras hears the words, but he can scarcely make sense of them. He cannot make himself rise from his knees, to lay his brother's body aside and leave this place.

"The house—the magister is dead, and my brother...it falls to me, now."

"The walls will not crumble if you are not here to hold them up. Come." He rises and holds out a hand to help Enjolras to his feet.

But his brother's body still lies across his lap, and Enjolras hesitates.

"Let him go, Enjolras," Grantaire says. His voice is kind, _so_ kind, and Enjolras wants nothing more than to take his hand, to let himself be led away from this house and all of its horrors.

He shakes his head. "No. No, he has shed blood, and now he must have fire. He was a Targaryen, and a king—he deserves that much."

"King of _what_?"

"The rightful king of Westeros," Enjolras snaps, unwilling to be gentled. "A king in exile. He was cruel and weak, yes, but a poor king is a king nonetheless."

"And you still claim him as a brother, despite his cruelties. Very well," Grantaire adds, relenting. "We can bring him to the khalasar and build a pyre there. It is a day's ride, no more."

Enjolras lets out a sigh of relief, and he nods. Grantaire pulls a tapestry from the wall, woven with images of Targaryen victories, and together they wind it around his brother's body as a shroud.

They take three horses, one for each of them to ride, and a third to bear his brother's body over its back. Some servant has had the foresight to wake the steward, and it is the work of a moment to leave the estate in his care. As they ride away, Enjolras nearly gives in to the urge to knock the dust of Pentos from his boots. He will never come back here.

Their ride is quiet. They do not speak, and it is all Enjolras can do to remain awake as the sun rises and the morning wears on into afternoon. He is too aware of the third horse, with its shrouded burden. _Kinslayer. Kingslayer_. To be one is a horror; to be both, unimaginable. He wonders if the Dothraki gods will be more forgiving than the Seven, or if he is damned in every faith.

So lost in thought is he that they are upon the khalasar before he realizes it, camped on the same plain as the first night that Enjolras had left Pentos. There is a rush of sound as the others see Grantaire, and Enjolras is distantly surprised to hear his own name called out, as well. They are glad to have him home. Would they still be glad, if they knew what he had done?

Grantaire helps him down from his horse, and his touch is a welcome thing, a grounding to keep him from drifting away. When Grantaire leads him to the tent, he follows without a word, leaving the third horse behind.

Grantaire guides him to sit at the edge of their bed. Then he crosses the room to lift a basin from its place on a table. He sets it down on the floor beside Enjolras and kneels at his feet, and then he reaches for Enjolras' hands.

He dips a cloth in the cool water and begins wiping Enjolras' hands clean, carefully washing away the dried, rust-brown blood that covers them. Soon the surface of the water is cloudy and red. It is said that _maegi_ use such basins to scry the future—if Enjolras were to look into the dark water, what would he see?

He looks away instead, turning his eyes to Grantaire with his head bowed over Enjolras' hands, drying them with a soft cloth. He still smells copper, still feels the blood pooling in his palms, but when he looks down, his hands are clean.

Grantaire kisses the palms of Enjolras' hands reverently when his task is done. "I thought I would never see you again," he says, his voice soft.

"I thought the same." He would have endured the loss, but only for the sake of Grantaire's safety. Each time Enjolras looks at him, he is shocked that they are together once more.

And then guilt pierces him, as sharp as any dagger. How dare he feel such happiness, when he has killed his own brother to gain it?

Grantaire returns the basin to its stand. "Are you hungry?"

"No."

"My bloodriders and I will build the pyre. You should sleep, and we will wake you at nightfall."

Enjolras can only shake his head.

"I can fetch Zetta, if you need something to help you sleep. Wine, or milk of the poppy—"

Enjolras shudders, thinking of sweetsleep. "No," he says.

"As you will. Gahro will wait outside the tent, should you have need of anything."

"Thank you."

After Grantaire leaves, Enjolras drifts around the tent, unsettled. He cannot even consider lying down to sleep, yet he cannot set himself to any other task. He watches the candles at the bedside flicker, watches the wax pool around the base as the hours pass. When he closes his eyes, the flames are a phantom light in the darkness.

He looks down at his clothes and finds that they are still stained with his brother's blood. He pulls them off, stuffing them beneath the bed so that he will not have to look at them. Then he crosses to the chest that holds his clothing and raises the lid.

The rich smell of cedar-wood rises from the chest. Enjolras' hands linger over painted vests and horsehair leggings, but he digs deep into the chest and finds the black tunic, emblazoned with the crimson dragon of the Targaryen house, that he wore on the day that he had been given to Grantaire. Montparnasse had meant to mock him with a parody of a bride's cloak, but it is all Enjolras owns that bears the sigil of his house. He dons the tunic and the leggings that go with it, though they fit strangely after his year among the Dothraki. A half-stranger stares back at him from the mirror, with ragged hair and deep shadows beneath his eyes.

In the mirror, he sees the tent flap pushed aside, and Grantaire standing at the threshold. Enjolras meets his eyes in the mirror.

"The pyre is ready," Grantaire says.

Enjolras nods, but he makes no move to follow Grantaire outside. After a moment, Grantaire steps back and lets the tent flap fall.

He does not know if he has the courage for this. He does not know if he can make himself put one foot in front of the other, to walk out of the tent and face the truth of what he has done.

He turns away from the mirror, and his gaze falls upon the carved wooden chest that holds his dragon eggs.

_You must look after each other_. Enjolras lifts the lid of the polished chest. Even a single egg would make a princely gift—but his brother was not a prince. For a king, no half-measure will suffice. He gathers them up in his arms and walks out of the tent.

The pyre is a grand thing, built high with felled trees and dry grasses. The day has cooled into evening, and everything is lit with the golden glow of sunset.

His brother's body lies atop the platform. Enjolras steels himself as he approaches. The body will be a grim sight, drenched in blood and—

Someone has washed his clothes and combed his hair—perhaps Grantaire himself. That small tenderness nearly undoes him, and he draws in a trembling breath. He places one egg above the crown of his brother's head, one upon his chest, and the third at his feet.

A khal takes his mount to the Night Lands. His brother shall have the dragons that have stood as the Targaryen sigil for three hundred years.

There is a lit torch thrust into the ground beside Grantaire. He lifts it from the earth and passes it to Enjolras. He expects his hand to shake, but he does not waver when he crosses the scrub grasses and touches the torch to a pitch-soaked log.

The pyre catches instantly, flames leaping into the air, and Enjolras steps back before he can feel the heat of it. When Grantaire catches his hand, Enjolras allows himself to pretend that it is the smoke that stings his eyes, the heat that makes his vision waver.

He cannot see his brother's body anymore; the pyre is wreathed in smoke and flame. This is not so bad as he had feared, after all.

A sharp _crack_ rends the air, startling them all. A pebble skitters out of the flames and settles at Enjolras' feet, still steaming. He lets go of Grantaire's hand and bends down to pick it up, careless of the heat. One side of the stone is smooth and curved inward.

The other shows a fragment of a dragonscale pattern. The heat of the fire must have been too much for the ancient stone to bear.

A second noise follows the first, and then a third. All three of the eggs must have shattered, then. Enjolras grieves for them, in a strange and detached way. Without them, he truly feels as though he is the last dragon.

A distant shriek draws his gaze back to the pyre. Deep within the flames, something is crying out. In fear or in pain, Enjolras cannot say, but there is something _alive_ inside the pyre. He takes a hesitant step forward, and Grantaire rests a hand on his shoulder.

"What is it?" Grantaire asks. Firelight dances in his eyes, and he has never looked more beautiful.

Enjolras shakes his head. "Can't you hear that?"

"It's only the fire," he says gently.

Enjolras' hand is still clenched tight around the shard of dragon egg, though the sharp edge has pierced the skin of his palm, and blood is beginning to drip from his fingers. The Targaryen words are _fire and blood_ , and their sigil is a dragon with three heads.

_A dragon..._

And suddenly he knows. Enjolras rushes towards the pyre, scarcely hearing Grantaire's startled cry behind him. He stands before a pillar of flame taller than he is. The heat should be enough to blister his skin, but he feels only a gentle warmth, even as the fire licks out to singe his tunic.

"Enjolras, _please_ —he isn't worth it, don't do this, _please_ —"

They will hold him back, he knows. Even if it takes a dozen of them, they will keep him from following Enjolras into the flames. In the depths of the pyre, Enjolras sees a flicker of motion, a shadow within the light.

He walks into the fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Brief suicidal ideation, violence, gaslighting and abusive behavior, minor character death.
> 
> Sorry to have kept everyone waiting so long for this. And I'm also sorry that this probably isn't a much better cliffhanger than the one before... 
> 
> You can yell at me on my [tumblr](http://thelibrarina.tumblr.com) if you want. I probably deserve it. :)


	9. Chapter 9

He is cold. That is the first thing he knows when he comes back to himself, kneeling in the remnants of the pyre. The flames have gone out, and the ashes are cold in the light of dawn.

There is a beating of wings beside him, and three sharp points of pain from the grip of tiny claws—one at each shoulder, and another on his arm. _Dragons_.

There have been no dragons in the world for a hundred years or more; it is known. The eggs that Grantaire had given to him were stone, petrified and lifeless. Yet now...

The one in his arms is a deep, bloody crimson, brighter even than the red sunrise before him. On his left shoulder is a golden one, and on his right is a little dragonet as black as jet, with piercing blue eyes. They had been lost in the fire, helpless and afraid—Enjolras alone could hear them, and no other could have saved them.

He remembers the roar and hiss of the flames, and Grantaire calling out his name. He is sorry to have frightened him so, but how could he have been made to understand? Grantaire would have tried to stop him, and in his desperation, Enjolras would have fought him like a wild thing.

He rises from his knees and walks back to the camp, careful not to disturb the dragons. The fire has not harmed him, but his clothes have burned away. That, he will attend to later—first, he has to find Grantaire.

The khalasar is silent and grim in the dawn light. No one is moving outside the tents, so no one sees him pass.

Eponine is standing guard before the khal's tent, her pike planted in the earth beside her. Her face is cold and set, and her frown deepens when she sees Enjolras approach.

The moment she recognizes him, her eyes go wide. Her gaze flickers among the three dragons, and then her lips settle into a firm line. She takes three steps forward and levels her pike at him, the tip barely touching Enjolras' chest.

The dragons hiss at her, but Enjolras can only blink in surprise. He does not give ground, but he does not move forward.

"How dare you frighten him like that?" she snaps, seeming half-dragon herself.

"I am sorry," he says, and the words taste strange in his mouth, as though he has not spoken for centuries. "I could not make him understand. Is he...is he well?"

"He tried to follow you. He fought us when we held him back. We had to promise—that we would let him join you in the Night Lands, once the moon was full again. And then Zetta gave him milk of the poppy, so he would not hurt himself."

Enjolras bows his head. "Thank you, for looking after him."

"It is what we do," she says crisply, lifting the pike away. "He will wake soon. You should be with him when he does."

"Thank you." Enjolras makes to step past her, but Eponine tips her pike to one side, blocking his path.

"You will _never_ do that to him again."

"No," Enjolras says softly. "No, I swear it."

She eyes him for a moment longer, and then she moves aside to let him pass.

Enjolras lifts the tent flap and steps inside. Grantaire's most trusted bloodriders are within, speaking together in low voices. Grantaire himself is lying curled on the bed, asleep or unconscious. The tent is dim and warm, lit by a pair of braziers in the center of the room.

Bahoro is the first to see him. "Great Stallion," he murmurs, and then the other bloodriders look up.

Naked, soot-stained, and carrying three dragons, Enjolras cannot imagine the sight he makes.

" _Zhavorsak_ ," someone whispers. _Dragon-prince._

"You can go," Enjolras says. "I want to be with him when he wakes."

No one protests. They file out of the tent, leaving Enjolras alone with Grantaire. Even in sleep he is frowning, jaw clenched tight against some nightmare. Enjolras considers crawling into bed beside him—he cannot remember the last night he slept peacefully—but there are the dragons to consider. There will always be the dragons to consider, now. Instead he sits at the edge of the bed, and he waits.

After perhaps an hour, Grantaire stirs. His eyes flicker open, and then closed again. He groans and curls into himself, turned to the tent wall.

"I told you to leave me," he says, his voice shaking. "You should have let me follow him."

"They were right to stop you," Enjolras says, and Grantaire stills as he recognizes his voice. He opens his eyes and turns to look at Enjolras—and look, and _look_. His face is carefully blank, as though he does not dare allow himself to hope.

"A dream?" he asks.

"No."

" _Enjolras_." Grantaire reaches out for him, and the golden dragon hisses a warning. Enjolras reaches up and taps the tiny dragon sharply on the head. "Not him," he says. "Never him." The words leave his mouth in Valyrian, and the dragon subsides, curling her head beneath her wing.

"How—?"

"I don't know," Enjolras says. "Perhaps...because it was a king's pyre. I could hear them crying, and I knew that no one else could go to them. I could not tell you, or you would have tried to stop me."

"I _would_ have stopped you," Grantaire says, and Enjolras smiles sadly.

"No. You would have tried."

"And you are not hurt?"

"Fire cannot kill a dragon," he says, though a part of him is still astonished that he is alive.

"Your hair..."

Enjolras frowns and reaches up to find only a layer of ash over the curve of his skull. "It will grow back," he says. It had been cut short already—it is not so great a loss.

Grantaire is looking at him with a fierce and helpless longing, and Enjolras cannot go a moment more without touching him. "Off," he says to the dragons, and they immediately climb down from his shoulders, taking up a roost on the footboard of the bed. There are deep, stinging scratches on his shoulders and arms, but they will heal.

Enjolras folds himself into Grantaire's arms. Grantaire's hands roam his skin, as though to convince himself that Enjolras is real.

There will be time for gentleness later. Now, they grasp at each other, smearing the bedclothes with soot. Grantaire is hard against his thigh, grinding against Enjolras as they work together to strip Grantaire's leggings from him.

When there is nothing between them, Enjolras lets his fingers tangle in Grantaire's hair and kisses him. Only two days before, he had thought that Grantaire was lost to him forever. To be here with him now—no matter the cost—is a blessing from the Seven.

He has half a thought to find the bottle of oil, but it would mean rising from the bed, and there is no inducement great enough to make him stop touching Grantaire. For now they will make do with hands and hips, the press of their bodies against each other. Grantaire rolls them over, and the weight of his body is a grounding pressure, even as the slide of his hips threatens to drive Enjolras beyond all sense.

"Yes," Grantaire says breathlessly. "My sun and stars, my dragon prince, my Enjolras—come for me."

Enjolras arches his back as the pressure and friction build to a perfect peak. He comes with a cry, clinging to Grantaire as he rides it out, overcome with pleasure and a joy that he had never hoped to feel again.

Perhaps he sleeps—at least, he drifts for a time, curled with Grantaire in the center of the bed. The dragons roost together at the foot of the bed, their heads tucked beneath their wings.

"Even as I look at them, I cannot believe it. _Dragons_ ," Grantaire murmurs reverently. He reaches out to the gold dragonet, who mantles her wings threateningly until he scratches her under her tiny jaw. After that, she is gentle as a kitten, clambering awkwardly towards the head of the bed so that Grantaire can continue. "What will you call them?" he asks.

Enjolras blinks. "I had not considered it. I suppose they must have names—though I do not know how to teach a dragon to come when it is called."

"You will know, I think. After all, they are magnificent, but they are beasts. And any beast can be trained."

"I suppose so." He thinks of the book of dragon-keeping that Montparnasse had given him, and wishes that he had it still. He feels curiously detached from the memory of his brother, though only a day before he had wept over the flames of the pyre. He knows, distantly, that he had grieved, and he expects that he will again, but for now he is adrift in wonder.

He turns his attention to the gold dragonet, now curled beside Grantaire's head and fast asleep. A female, he thinks, though he could not say how he knows. "Nivviel, perhaps—for your mother?"

Grantaire's eyes widen, surprised and pleased. "I am sure she will be pleased. To have the first dragon in centuries named for her...she will be honored."

"The red I will call Essarion, because I would sooner build my kingdom here with you than reign over all the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. And the black..." Enjolras clicks his tongue, and the black dragon awakens and perches on Enjolras' outstretched arm.

Enjolras strokes the wing of the black dragonet. "I think I will call him Parnassion. After all—" His voice shudders, and he takes a breath. "After all, the eggs would not have hatched without his pyre."

Grantaire nods and says nothing, knowing that there is nothing to be said. They lie together in quiet, the three tiny dragons around them. Soon they will need to be fed, and Enjolras will have to begin training them, but not yet. For now, he has Grantaire, and they are at peace.

Enjolras turns on his side to face Grantaire, the black and gold dragons nestled between them. "Do you remember what you said, after Mantarys?"

"We said a great many things to each other, not all of them kind."

"I know. But when we spoke of the market, and the slave cities, you told me that if I had a dragon, no one could stand in my way."

Grantaire frowns. "I did say that, yes."

Enjolras strokes the top of Parnassion's head and smiles. "Tell me about Astapor."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it's done. 
> 
> This was one of the first fics I ever considered writing, probably back in late 2013 or early 2014. I've been working on it, off and on, ever since then, and it was hard to let this one go out into the world. There might be small pieces added to this universe--for example, I've realized the roles that Cosette and Valjean play--but the bulk of the story is told.
> 
> As always, I can be found at my [tumblr](http://thelibrarina.tumblr.com). I hope you've enjoyed reading this as much as I've enjoyed writing it. There are no words for "thank you" in Dothraki, but happily there are in English, so I can say--thank you, and thank you, and thank you.


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